The  person  charging  this  material  is  re- 
sponsible for  its  return  to  the  library  from 
which  it  was  withdrawn  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 

Theft,  mutilation,  and  underlining  of  books 
are  reasons  for  disciplinary  action  and  may 
result  in  dismissal  from  the  University. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS  LIBRARY  AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 


tS  7 & /;j 

V-  j / , r* 


Cc  Hfrman  jttJulit'r. 


C3 


+1  *T  i v 
. . /:  - 


A 


PASSIONATE  PILGRIM, 

AND  OTHEE  TALES. 


BY 

HENEY  JAMES,  Jr. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  & Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  & Co. 

1875. 


Copyright,  1875, 

By  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  & CO. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  & Co., 
Cambridge. 


J 2. 3 p 


CONTENTS. 


V; 

0 


i 

i 


• 

A Passionate  Pilgrim  . 

The  Last  of  the  Valerii  . 

Eugene  Pickering 

The  Madonna  of  the  Future  . 

The  Romance  of  Certain  Old  Clothes 
Madame  de  Mauyes  .... 


v 


3 

w 

p 

-i- 

n 

rV 


J 


Page 

5 

125 

179 

261 

327 

363 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 

it  - 


https://archive.Org/details/paSSionatepilgri00jame_0 


A Passionate  Pilgrim. 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


i. 

INTENDING  to  sail  for  America  in  the  early  part 
of  June,  I determined  to  spend  the  interval  of 
six  weeks  in  England,  of  which  I had  dreamed  much 
but  as  yet  knew  nothing.  I had  formed  in  Italy  and 
France  a resolute  preference  for  old  inns,  deeming  that 
what  they  sometimes  cost  the  ungratified  body  they 
repay  the  delighted  mind.  On  my  arrival  in  London, 
therefore,  I lodged  at  a certain  antique  hostelry  far  to 
the  east  of  Temple  Bar,  deep  in  what  I used  to  denom- 
inate the  Johnsonian  city.  Here,  on  the  first  evening 
of  my  stay,  I descended  to  the  little  coffee-room  and 
bespoke  my  dinner  of  the  genius  of  decorum,  in  the 
person  of  the  solitary  waiter.  No  sooner  had  I crossed 
the  threshold  of  this  apartment  than  I felt  I had 
mown  the  first  swath  in  my  golden-ripe  crop  of  British 
“ impressions/’  The  coffee-room  of  the  Bed-Lion,  like 
so  many  other  places  and  things  I was  destined  to 
see  in  England,  seemed  to  have-  been  waiting  for  long 


8 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


years,  with  just  that  sturdy  sufferance  of  time  written 
on  its  visage,  for  me  to  come  and  gaze,  ravished  but 
unamazed. 

The  latent  preparedness  of  the  American  mind  for 
even  the  most  delectable  features  of  English  life  is  a 
fact  which  I never  fairly  probed  to  its  depths.  The 
roots  of  it  are  so  deeply  buried  in  the  virgin  soil  of 
our  primary  culture,  that,  without  some  great  upheaval 
of  experience,  it  would  be  hard  to  say  exactly  when 
and  where  and  how  it  begins.  It  makes  an  Americans 
enjoyment  of  England  an  emotion  more  fatal  and 
sacred  than  his  enjoyment,  say,  of  Italy  or  Spain.  I 
had  seen  the  coffee-room  of  the  Bed-Lion  years  ago,  at 
home,  — at  Saragossa,  Illinois,  — in  books,  in  visions, 
in  dreams,  in  Dickens,  in  Smollett,  and  Boswell.  It 
was  small,  and  subdivided  into  six  small  compartments 
by  a series  of  perpendicular  screens  of  mahogany, 
something  higher  than  a man’s  stature,  furnished  on 
either  side  with  a narrow  uncushioned  ledge,  denomi- 
nated in  ancient  Britain  a seat.  In  each  of  the  little 
dining-boxes  thus  immutably  constituted  was  a small 
table,  which  in  crowded  seasons  was  expected  to  ac- 
commodate the  several  agents  of  a fourfold  British 
hungriness.  But  crowded  seasons  had  passed  away 
from  the  Bed-Lion  forever.  It  was  crowded  only  with 
memories  and  ghosts  and  atmosphere.  Bound  the 
room  there  marched,  breast-high,  a magnificent  panel- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


9 


ling  of  mahogany,  so  dark  with  time  and  so  polished 
with  unremitted  friction,  that  by  gazing  awhile  into  its 
lucid  blackness  I fancied  I could  discern  the  lingering 
images  of  a party  of  gentlemen  in  periwigs  and  short- 
clothes,  just  arrived  from  York  by  the  coach.  On  the 
dark  yellow  walls,  coated  by  the  fumes  of  English  coal, 
of  English  mutton,  of  Scotch  whiskey,  were  a dozen 
melancholy  prints,  sallow-toned  with  age,  — the  Derby 
favorite  of  the  year  1807,  the  Bank  of  England,  her 
Majesty  the  Queen.  On  the  floor  was  a Turkey  carpet, 
— as  old  as  the  mahogany,  almost,  as  the  Bank  of 
England,  as  the  Queen,  — into  which  the  waiter  in  his 
lonely  revolutions  had  trodden  so  many  massive  soot- 
flakes  and  drops  of  overflowing  beer,  that  the  glowing 
looms  of  Smyrna  would  certainly  not  have  recognized 
it.  To  say  that  I ordered  my  dinner  of  this  superior 
being  would  be  altogether  to  misrepresent  the  process, 
owing  to  which',  having  dreamed  of  lamb  and  spinach, 
and  a charlotte-russe,  I sat  down  in  penitence  to  a mut- 
ton-chop and  a rice  pudding.  Bracing  my  feet  against 
the  cross-beam  of  my  little  oaken  table,  I opposed  to 
the  mahogany  partition  behind  me  that  vigorous  dorsal 
resistance  which  expresses  the  old-English  idea  of  re- 
pose. The  sturdy  screen  refused  even  to  creak ; but 
my  poor  Yankee  joints  made  up  the  deficiency.  While 
I was  waiting  for  my  chop  there  came  into  the  room  a 
person  whom  I took  to  be  my  sole  fellow-lodger.  He 


10 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


seemed,  like  myself,  to  have  submitted  to  proposals 
for  dinner ; the  table  on  the  other  side  of  my  partition 
had  been  prepared  to  receive  him.  He  walked  up  to 
the  fire,  exposed  his  back  to  it,  consulted  his  watch, 
and  looked  apparently  out  of  the  window,  but  really 
at  me.  He  was  a man  of  something  less  than  middle 
age  and  more  than  middle  stature,  though  indeed  you 
would  have  called  him  neither  young  nor  tall.  He  was 
chiefly  remarkable  for  his  exaggerated  leanness.  His 
hair,  very  thin  on  the  summit  of  his  head,  was  dark, 
short,  and  fine.  His  eye  was  of  a pale,  turbid  gray, 
unsuited,  perhaps,  to  his  dark  hair  and  brow,  but  not 
altogether  out  of  harmony  with  his  colorless,  bilious 
complexion.  His  nose  was  aquiline  and  delicate ; be- 
neath it  hung  a thin,  comely,  dark  mustache.  His 
mouth  and  chin  were  meagre  and  uncertain  of  outline ; 
not  vulgar,  perhaps,  but  weak.  A cold,  fatal,  gentle- 
manly weakness,  indeed,  seemed  expressed  in  his  atten- 
uated person.  His  eye  was  restless  and  deprecating; 
his  whole  physiognomy,  his  manner  of  shifting  his 
weight  from  foot  to  foot,  the  spiritless  droop  of  his 
head,  told  of  exhausted  purpose,  of  a will  relaxed.  His 
dress  was  neat  and  careful,  with  an  air  of  half-mourn- 
ing. I made  up  my  mind  on  three  points : he  was 
unmarried,  he  was  ill,  he  was  not  an  Englishman.  The 
waiter  approached  him,  and  they  murmured  momen- 
tarily in  barely  audible  tones.  I heard  the  words 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


11 


“ claret,”  “ sherry,”  with  a tentative  inflection,  and 
finally  “ beer,”  with  a gentle  affirmative.  Perhaps  he 
was  a Eussian  in  reduced  circumstances  ; he  reminded 
me  of  a certain  type  of  Eussian  which  I had  met  on 
the  Continent.  While  I was  weighing  this  hypothesis, 
— for  you  see  I was  interested,  — there  appeared  a 
short,  brisk  man  with  reddish-brown  hair,  a vulgar 
nose,  a sharp  blue  eye,  and  a red  beard,  confined  to 
his  lower  jaw  and  chin.  My  impecunious  Eussian  was 
still  standing  on  the  rug,  with  his  mild  gaze  bent  on 
vacancy ; the  other  marched  up  to  him,  and  with  his 
umbrella  gave. him  a playful  poke  in  the  concave  front- 
age of  his  melancholy  waistcoat.  “ A penny-ha’penny 
for  your  thoughts  ! ” said  the  new-comer. 

His  companion  uttered  an  exclamation,  stared,  then 
laid  his  two  hands  on  the  other’s  shoulders.  The 
latter  looked  round  at  me  keenly,  compassing  me  in 
a momentary  glance.  I read  in  its  own  high  light 
that  this  was  an  American  eyebeam  * and  with  such 
confidence  that  I hardly  needed  to  see  its  owner,  as 
he  prepared,  with  his  friend,  to  seat  himself  at  the 
table  adjoining  my  own,  take  from  his  overcoat-pocket 
three  Hew  York  papers  and  lay  them  beside  his  plate. 
As  my  neighbors  proceeded  to  dine,  I became  con- 
scious that,  through  no  indiscretion  of  my  own,  a large 
portion  of  their  conversation  made  its  way  over  the 
top  of  our  dividing  partition  and  mingled  its  savor 


12 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


with  that  of  my  simple  repast.  Occasionally  their 
tone  was  lowered,  as  with  the  intention  of  secrecy  • 
but  I heard  a phrase  here  and  a phrase  there  dis- 
tinctly enough  to  grow  very  curious  as  to  the  burden 
of  the  whole,  and,  in  fact,  to  succeed  at  last  in  guess- 
ing it.  The  two  voices  were  pitched  in  an  unforgotten 
key,  and  equally  native  to  our  Cisatlantic  air ; they 
seemed  to  fall  upon  the  muffled  medium  of  surround- 
ing parlance  as  the  rattle  of  pease  on  the  face  of  a 
drum.  They  were  American,  however,  with  a differ- 
ence ; and  I had  no  hesitation  in  assigning  the  lighter 
and  softer  of  the  two  to  the  pale,  thin  gentleman, 
whom  I decidedly  preferred  to  his  comrade.  The 
latter  began  to  question  him  about  his  voyage. 

“ Horrible,  horrible ! I was  deadly  sick  from  the 
hour  we  left  New  York.” 

“ Well,  you  do  look  considerably  reduced,”  his  friend 
affirmed. 

“ Reduced  ! I Ve  been  on  the  verge  of  the  grave. 
I have  n’t  slept  six  hours  in  three  weeks.”  This  was 
said  with  great  gravity.  “ Well,  I have  made  the 
voyage  for  the  last  time.” 

“ The  deuce  you  have ! You  mean  to  stay  here 
forever  ? ” 

“ Here,  or  somewhere  ! It ’s  likely  to  be  a short 
forever.” 

There  was  a pause ; after  which : “ You  ’re  the 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


13 


same  cheerful  old  boy,  Searle.  Going  to  die  to-mor- 
row, eh?” 

“ I almost  wish  I were.” 

“ You  ’re  not  in  love  with  England,  then  ? I ’ve 
heard  people  say  at  home  that  you  dressed  and  talked 
and  acted  like  an  Englishman.  But  I know  Eng- 
lishmen, and  I know  you.  You  ’re  not  one  of  them, 
Searle,  not  you.  You  ’ll  go  under  here,  sir ; you  ’ll 
go  under  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Simmons.” 

Following  this,  I heard  a sudden  clatter,  as  of  the 
dropping  of  a knife  and  fork.  “ Well,  you  ’re  a deli- 
cate sort  of  creature,  Simmons  ! I have  been  wan- 
dering about  all  day  in  this  accursed  city,  ready  to 
cry  with  home-sickness  and  heart-sickness  and  every 
possible  sort  of  sickness,  and  thinking,  in  the  absence 
of  anything  better,  of  meeting  you  here  this  evening, 
and  of  your  uttering  some  syllable  of  cheer  and  com- 
fort, and  giving  me  some  feeble  ray  of  hope.  Go 
under  ? Am  I not  under  now  ? I can’t  sink  lower, 
except  to  sink  into  my  grave  ! ” 

Mr.  Simmons  seems  to  have  staggered  a moment 
under  this  outbreak  of  passion.  But  the  next, 
“ Don’t  cry,  Searle,”  I heard  him  say.  “ Remember 
the  waiter.  I ’ve  grown  Englishman  enough  for 
that.  For  heaven’s  sake,  don’t  let  us  have  any  feel- 
ings. Feelings  will  do  nothing  for  you  here.  It ’s 
best  to  come  to  the  point.  Tell  me  in  three  words 
what  you  expect  of  me.” 


14 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


I heard  another  movement,  as  if  poor  Searle  had 
collapsed  in  his  chair.  “ Upon  my  word,  Simmons, 
you  are  inconceivable.  You  got  my  letter  ? ” 

“Yes,  I got  your  letter.  I was  never  sorrier  to 
get  anything  in  my  life.” 

At  this  declaration  Mr.  Searle  rattled  out  an  oath, 
which  it  was  well  perhaps  that  I but  partially  heard. 
“John  Simmons,”  he  cried,  “what  devil  possesses 
you  ? Are  you  going  to  betray  me  here  in  a foreign 
land,  to  turn  out  a false  friend,  a heartless  rogue  ? ” 

“ Go  on,  sir,”  said  sturdy  Simmons.  “ Pour  it  all 
out.  I ’ll  wait  till  you  have  done.  — Your  beer  is 
very  bad,”  to  the  waiter.  “ I ’ll  have  some  more.” 

“ Por  God’s  sake,  explain  yourself ! ” cried  Searle. 
There  was  a pause,  at  the  end  of  which  I heard 
Mr.  Simmons  set  down  his  empty  tankard  with  em- 
phasis. “ You  poor  morbid  man,”  he  resumed,  “ I 
don’t  want  to  say  anything  to  make  you  feel  sore. 
I pity  you.  But  you  must  allow  me  to  say  that 
you  have  acted  like  a blasted  fool ! ” 

Mr.  Searle  seemed  to  have  made  an  effort  to  com- 
pose himself.  “Be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  was 
the  meaning  of  your  letter.” 

“I  was  a fool,  myself,  to  have  written  that  letter. 
It  came  of  my  infernal  meddlesome  benevolence.  I 
had  much  better  have  let  you  alone.  To  tell  you 
the  plain  truth,  I never  was  so  horrified  in  my  life 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


15 


as  when  I found  that  on  the  strength  of  that  letter 
you  had  come  out  here  to  seek  your  fortune.’’ 


“ What  did  you  expect  me  to  do  ? ” 

“I  expected  you  to  wait  patiently  till  I had  made 
further  inquiries  and  had  written  to  you  again.” 

“You  have  made  further  inquiries  now?” 

“ Inquiries  ! I have  made  assaults.” 

“ And  you  find  I have  no  claim  ? ” 

“No  claim  to  call  a claim.  It  looked  at  first  as 
if  you  had  a very  pretty  one.  I confess  the  idea 
took  hold  of  me  — ” 

“ Thanks  to  your  preposterous  benevolence  ! ” 

Mr.  Simmons  seemed  for  a moment  to  experience 
a difficulty  in  swallowing.  “ Your  beer  is  undrink- 
able/’ he  said  to  the  waiter.  “ I ’ll  have  some  brandy. 

— Come,  Searle,”  he  resumed,  “don’t  challenge  me 
to  the  arts  of  debate,  or  I ’ll  settle  right  down  on 
you.  Benevolence,  as  I say,  was  part  of  it.  The 
reflection  that  if  I put  the  thing  through  it  would  be 
a very  pretty  feather  in  my  cap  and  a very  pretty 
penny  in  my  purse  was  part  of  it.  And  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  a poor  nobody  of  a Yankee  walk'^ 
right  into  an  old  English  estate  was  a good  deal  of 
it.  Upon  my  word,  Searle,  when  I think  of  it,  I 
wish  with  all  my  heart  that,  erratic  genius  as  you 
are,  you  had  a claim,  for  the  very  beauty  of  it ! I 
should  hardly  care  what  you  did  with  the  confounded 


16 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


property  when  you  got  it.  I could  leave  you  alone  to 
* turn  it  into  Yankee  notions,  — into  ducks  and  drakes, 
as  they  call  it  here.  I should  like  to  see  you  stamping 
over  it  and  kicking  up  its  sacred  dust  in  their  very 
faces ! ” 

“ You  don’tf  know  me,  Simmons ! ” said  Searle,  for 
all  response  to  this  untender  benediction. 

“ I should  be  very  glad  to  think  I did  n’t,  Searle. 
I have  been  to  no  small  amount  of  trouble  for  you. 
I have  consulted  by  main  force  three  first-rate  men. 
They  smile  at  the  idea.  I should  like  you  to  see 
the  smile  negative  of  one  of  these  London  big- wigs. 
If  your  title  were  written  in  letters  of  fire,  it  would 
n’t  stand  being  sniffed  at  in  that  fashion.  I sounded 
in  person  the  solicitor  of  your  distinguished  kinsman. 
He  seemed  to  have  been  in  a manner  forewarned 
and  forearmed.  It  seems  your  brother  George,  some 
twenty  years  ago,  put  forth  a feeler.  So  you  are 
not  to  have  the  glory  of  even  frightening  them.” 

“ I never  frightened  any  one,”  said  Searle.  “ I 
should  n’t  begin  at  this  time  of  day.  I should  ap- 
proach the  subject  like  a gentleman.” 

“ Well,  if  you  want  very  much  to  do  something 
like  a gentleman,  you’ve  got  a capital  chance.  Take 
your  disappointment  like  a gentleman.” 

I had  finished  my  dinner,  and  I had  become  keen- 
ly interested  in  poor  Mr.  Searle’s  mysterious  claim ; 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


17 


so  interested  tliat  it  was  vexatious  to  hear  his  emo- 
tions reflected  in  his  voice  without  noting  them  in 
his  face.  I left  my  place,  went  over  to  the  fire,  took 
up  the  evening  paper,  and  established  a post  of  ob- 
servation behind  it. 

Lawyer  Simmons  was  in  the  act  of  choosing  a */ 
soft  chop  from  the  dish,  — an  act  accompanied  by  a 
great  deal  of  prying  and  poking  with  his  own  per- 
sonal fork.  My  disillusioned  compatriot  had  pushed 
away  his  plate;  he  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
gloomily  nursing  his  head  with  his  hands.  His 
companion  stared  at  him  a moment,  I fancied  half 
tenderly  ; I am  not  sure  whether  it  was  pity  or 
whether  it  was  beer  and  brandy.  “ I say,  Searle,” 

— and  for  my  benefit,  I think,  taking  me  for  an 
impressible  native,  he  attuned  his  voice  to  some- 
thing of  a pompous  pitch,  — “ in  this  country  it  is 
the  inestimable  privilege  of  a loyal  citizen,  under 
whatsoever  stress  of  pleasure  or  of  pain,  to  make  a 
point  of  eating  his  dinner.” 

Searle  disgustedly  gave  his  plate  another  push. 

“ Anything  may  happen,  now  ! ” he  said.  “ I don’t 
care  a straw.” 

“ You  ought  to  care.  Have  another  chop,  and  you 
will  care.  Have  some  brandy.  Take  my  advice  ! ” 

Searle  from  between  his  two  hands  looked  at  him. 

“ I have  hpd  enough  of  your  advice ! ” he  said. 


B 


18 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


“ A little  more,”  said  Simmons,  mildly  ; “ I sha’  n’t 
trouble  you  again.  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ 0,  come  ! ” 

“ Nothing,  nothing,  nothing  ! ” 

“Nothing  but  starve.  How  about  your  money?” 

“ Why  do  you  ask  ? You  don’t  care.” 

“ My  dear  fellow,  if  you  want  to  make  me  offer 
you  twenty  pounds,  you  set  most  clumsily  about  it. 
You  said  just  now  I don’t  know  you.  Possibly  ! 
There  is,  perhaps,  no  such  enormous  difference  be- 
tween knowing  you  and  not  knowing  you.  At  any 
rate,  you  don’t  know  me.  I expect  you  to  go 
home.” 

“ I won’t  go  home  ! I have  crossed  the  ocean  for 
the  last  time.” 

“ What  is  the  matter  ? Are  you  afraid  ? ” 

“Yes,  I’m  afraid!  "I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teach- 
ing me  that  word  ! ’ ” 

“ You  ’re  more  afraid  to  go  than  to  stay  ? ” 

“ I sha’  n’t  stay.  I shall  die.” 

“ 0,  are  you  sure  of  that  ? ” 

“ One  can  always  be  sure  of  that.” 

Mr.  Simmons  started  and  stared : his  mild  cynic  had 
turned  grim  stoic.  “ Upon  my  soul,”  he  said,  “ one 
would  think  that  Death  had  named  the  day!” 

“We  have  named  it,  between  us.” 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


19 


This  was  too  much  even  for  Mr.  Simmons’s  easy 
morality.  “ I say,  Searle,”  he  cried,  “ I ’m  not  more  of 
a stickler  than  the  next  man,  but  if  you  are  going  to 
blaspheme,  I shall  wash  my  hands  of  you.  If  you  ’ll 
consent  to  return  home  with  me  by  the  steamer  of  the 
23d,  I ’ll  pay  your  passage  down.  More  than  that,  I ’ll 
pay  your  wine  bill.” 

Searle  meditated.  “ I believe  I never  willed  any- 
thing in  my  life,”  he  said ; “ but  I feel  sure  that  I have 
willed  this,  that  I stay  here  till  I take  my  leave  for  a 
newer  world  than  that  poor  old  New  World  of  ours. 
It ’s  an  odd  feeling,  — I rather  like  it ! What  should 
I do  at  home  ? ” 

“ You  said  just  now  you  were  homesick.” 

“ So  I was  — for  a morning.  But  have  n’t  I been 
all  my  life  long  sick  for  Europe  ? And  now  that  I ’ve 
got  it,  am  I to  cast  it  off  again  ? I’m  much  obliged  to 
you  for  your  offer.  I have  enough  for  the  present.  I 
have  about  my  person  some  forty  pounds’  worth  of 
British  gold  and  the  same  amount,  say,  of  Yankee  vi- 
tality. They  ’ll  last  me  out  together  ! After  they  are 
gone,  I shall  lay  my  head  in  some  English  churchyard, 
beside  some  ivied  tower,  beneath  an  English  yew.” 

I had  thus  far  distinctly  followed  the  dialogue ; but 
at  this  point  the  landlord  came  in,  and,  begging  my 
pardon,  would  suggest  that  No.  12,  a most  superior 
apartment,  having  now  been  vacated,  it  would  give  him 


20 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


pleasure,  etc.  The  fate  of  No.  12  having  been  decreed, 
I transferred  my  attention  back  to  my  friends.  They 
had  risen  to  their  feet ; Simmons  had  put  on  his  over- 
coat ; he  stood  polishing  his  rusty  black  hat  with  his 
napkin.  “ Do  you  mean  to  go  down  to  the  place  ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Possibly.  I have  dreamed  of  it  so  much  I should 
like  to  see  it.” 

“ Shall  you  call  on  Mr.  Searle  ? ” 

“ Heaven  forbid ! ” 

“ Something  has  just  occurred  to  me,”  Simmons  pur- 
sued, with  an  unhandsome  grin,  as  if  Mephistopheles 
were  playing  at  malice.  “ There ’s  a Miss  Searle,  the 
old  man’s  sister.” 

“ Well  ?”  said  the  other,  frowning. 

“Well,  sir!  suppose,  instead  of  dying,  you  should 
marry ! ” 

Mr.  Searle  frowned  in  silence.  Simmons  gave  him 
a tap  on  the  stomach.  “ Line  those  ribs  a bit  first ! ” 
The  poor  gentleman  blushed  crimson  and  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  “ You  are  a coarse  brute,”  he  said.  The 
scene  was  pathetic.  I was  prevented  from  seeing  the 
conclusion  of  it  by  the  reappearance  of  the  landlord, 
on  behalf  of  No.  12.  He  insisted  on  my  coming  to 
inspect  the  premises.  Half  an  hour  afterwards  I was 
rattling  along  in  a Hansom  toward  Covent  Garden, 
where  I heard  Madame  Bosio  in  the  Barber  of  Seville. 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


21 


On  my  return  from  the  opera  I went  into  the  coffee- 
room,  vaguely  fancying  I might  catch  another  glimpse 
of  Mr.  Searle.  I was  not  disappointed.  I found  him 
sitting  before  the  fire,  with  his  head  fallen  on  his 
breast,  sunk  in  the  merciful  stupor  of  tardy  sleep.  I 
looked  at  him  for  some  moments.  His  face,  pale  and 
refined  in  the  dim  lamplight,  impressed  me  with  an 
air  of  helpless,  ineffective  delicacy.  They  say  fortune 
comes  while  we  sleep.  Standing  there  I felt  benignant 
enough  to  be  poor  Mr.  Searle’s  fortune.  As  I walked 
away,  I perceived  amid  the  shadows  of  one  of  the  little 
dining  stalls  which  I have  described  the  lonely  ever- 
dressed  waiter,  dozing  attendance  on  my  friend,  and 
shifting  aside  for  a while  the  burden  of  waiterhood.  I 
lingered  a moment  beside  the  old  inn-yard,  in  which, 
upon  a time,  the  coaches  and  postchaises  found  space 
to  turn  and  disgorge.  Above  the  upward  vista  of  the 
enclosing  galleries,  from  which  lounging  lodgers  and 
crumpled  chambermaids  and  all  the  picturesque  domes- 
ticity of  an  antique  tavern  must  have  watched  the 
great  entrances  and  exits  of  the  posting  and  coaching 
drama,  I descried  the  distant  lurid  twinkle  of  the  Lon- 
don constellations.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  enshrined 
in  the  glittering  niche  of  her  well-appointed  bar,  the 
landlady  sat  napping  like  some  solemn  idol  amid  votive 
brass  and  plate. 

The  next  morning,  not  finding  the  innocent  object  of 


22 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


my  benevolent  curiosity  in  the  coffee-room,  I learned 
from  the  waiter  that  he  had  ordered  breakfast  in 
bed.  Into  this  asylum  I was  not  yet  prepared  to 
pursue  him.  I spent  the  morning  running  about 
London,  chiefly  on  business,  but  snatching  by  the 
way  many  a vivid  impression  of  its  huge  metropoli- 
tan interest.  Beneath  the  sullen  black  and  gray  of 
\ that  hoary  civic  world  the  hungry  American  mind 
[ detects  the  magic  colors  of  association.  As  the  after- 
noon approached,  however,  my  impatient  heart  began 
to  babble  of  green  fields ; it  was  of  English  meadows 
I had  chiefly  dreamed.  Thinking  over  the  suburban 
lions,  I fixed  upon  Hampton  Court.  The  day  was  the 
more  propitious  that  it  yielded  just  that  dim,  suba- 
queous light  which  sleeps  so  fondly  upon  the  English 
landscape. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  I found  myself  wandering 
through  the  multitudinous  rooms  of  the  great  palace. 
They  follow  each  other  in  infinite  succession,  with 
no  great  variety  of  interest  or  aspect,  but  with  a sort 
of  regal  monotony,  and  a fine  specific  flavor.  They 
are  most  exactly  of  their  various  times.  You  pass 
from  great  painted  and  panelled  bedchambers  and  clos- 
ets, anterooms,  drawing-rooms,  council-rooms,  through 
king’s  suite,  queen’s  suite,  and  prince’s  suite,  until 
you  feel  as  if  you  were  strolling  through  .the  ap- 
pointed hours  and  stages  of  some  decorous  monarchi- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


23 


cal  day.  On  one  side  are  the  old  monumental  uphol- 
steries, the  vast  cold  tarnished  beds  and  canopies, 
with  the  circumference  of  disapparelled  royalty  at- 
tested by  a gilded  balustrade,  and  the  great  carved 
and  yawning  chimney-places,  where  dukes-in-waiting 
may  have  warmed  their  weary  heels ; on  the  other 
side,  in  deep  recesses,  the  immense  windows,  the 
framed  and  draped  embrasures  where  the  sovereign 
whispered  and  favorites  smiled,  looking  out  on  the 
terraced  gardens  and  the  misty  glades  of  Bushey  Park. 
The  dark  walls  are  gravely  decorated  by  innumerable 
dark  portraits  of  persons  attached  to  Court  and  State, 
more  especially  with  various  members  of  the  Dutch- 
looking entourage  of  William  of  Orange,  the  restorer 
of  the  palace;  with  good  store,  too,  of  the  lily-bos- 
omed models  of  Lely  and  Kneller.  The  whole  tone 
of  this  long-drawn  interior  is  immensly  sombre,  prosaic, 
and  sad.  The  tints  of  all  things  have  sunk  to  a cold 
and  melancholy  brown,  and  the  great  palatial  void 
seems  to  hold  no  stouter  tenantry  than  a sort  of  pun- 
gent odorous  chill.  I seemed  to  be  the  only  visitor. 
I held  ungrudged  communion  with  the  formal  genius 
of  the  spot.  Poor  mortalized  kings  ! ineffective  lure 
of  royalty ! This,  or  something  like  it,  was  the 
murmured  burden  of  my  musings.  They  were  inter- 
rupted suddenly  by  my  coming  upon  a person  standing 
in  devout  contemplation  before  a simpering  countess 


24 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


of  Sir  Peter  Lely’s  creation.  On  hearing  my  footstep 
this  person  turned  his  head,  and  I recognized  my 
fellow-lodger  at  the  Red-Lion.  I was  apparently  rec- 
ognized as  well;  I detected  an  air  of  overture  in  his 
glance.  In  a few  moments,  seeing  I had  a cata- 
logue, he  asked  the  name  of  the  portrait.  On  my 
ascertaining  it,  he  inquired,  timidly,  how  I liked 
the  lady. 

“ Well,”  said  I,  not  quite  timidly  enough,  perhaps, 
“I  confess  she  seems  to  me  rather  a light  piece  of 
work.” 

He  remained  silent,  and  a little  abashed,  I think. 
As  we  strolled  away  he  stole  a sidelong  glance  of 
farewell  at  his  leering  shepherdess.  To  speak  with 
him  face  to  face  was  to  feel  keenly  that  he  was 
weak  and  interesting.  We  talked  of  our  inn,  of 
London,  of  the  palace;  he  uttered  his  mind  freely, 
but  he  seemed  to  struggle  with  a weight  of  depres- 
sion. It  was  a simple  mind  enough,  with  no  great 
culture,  I fancied,  but  with  a certain  appealing 
native  grace.  I foresaw  that  I should  find  him  a 
true  American,  full  of  that  perplexing  interfusion 

{of  refinement  and  crudity  which  marks  the  Ameri- 
can mind.  Ilis  perceptions,  I divined,  were  delicate ; 
his  opinions,  possibly,  gross.  On  my  telling  him 
that  I too  was  an  American,  he  stopped  short  and 
seemed  overcome  with  emotion : then  silently  pass- 


V 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


25 


ing  his  arm  into  my  own,  he  suffered  me  to  lead 
him  through  the  rest  of  the  palace  and  down  into 
the  gardens.  A vast  gravelled  platform  stretches  it- 
self before  the  basement  of  the  palace,  taking  the 
afternoon  sun.  A portion  of  the  edifice  is  reserved 
as  a series  of  private  apartments,  occupied  by  state 
pensioners,  reduced  gentlewomen  in  receipt  of  the 
Queen’s  bounty,  and  other  deserving  persons.  Many 
of  these  apartments  have  their  little  private  gardens; 
and  here  and  there,  between  their  verdure-coated  walls, 
you  catch  a glimpse  of  these  dim  horticultural  clos- 
ets. My  companion  and  I took  many  a turn  up  and 
down  this  spacious  level,  looking  down  on  the  antique 
geometry  of  the  lower  garden  and  on  the  stoutly  woven 
tapestry  of  vine  and  blossom  which  muffles  the%  foun- 
dations of  the  huge  red  pile.  I thought  of  the  various 
images  of  old-world  gentility,  which,  early  and  late, 
must  have  strolled  upon  that  ancient  terrace  and  felt 
the  great  protecting  quietude  of  the  solemn  palace. 
We  looked  through  an  antique  grating  into  one  of 
the  little  private  gardens,  and  saw  an  old  lady  with 
a black  mantilla  on  her  head,  a decanter  of  water  in 
one  hand  and  a crutch  in  the  other,  come  forth,  fol- 
lowed by  three  little  dogs  and  a cat,  to  sprinkle  a 
plant.  She  had  an  opinion,  I fancied,  on  the  virtue 
of  Queen  Caroline.  There  are  few  sensations  so  ex- 
quisite in  life  as  to  stand  with  a companion  in  a 


26  A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 

foreign  land  and  inhale*  to  the  depths  of  your  con- 
sciousness the  alien  savor  of  the  air  and  the  tonic 
picturesqueness  of  things.  This  common  relish  of 
local  color  makes  comrades  of  strangers.  My  com- 
panion seemed  oppressed  with  vague  amazement. 
He  stared  and  lingered  and  scanned  the  scene  with 
a gentle  scowl.  His  enjoyment  appeared  to  give 
him  pain.  I proposed,  at  last,  that  we  should  dine 
in  the  neighborhood  and  take  a late  train  to  town. 
We  made  our  way  out  of  the  gardens  into  the  ad- 
joining village,  where  we  found  an  excellent  inn. 
Mr.  Searle  sat  down  to  table  with  small  apparent 
interest  in  the  repast,  but  gradually  warming  to  his 
work,  he  declared  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  that 
for  the  first  time  in  a month  he  felt  an  appetite. 

“ You  he  an  invalid  ? ” I said. 

“ Yes,”  he  answered.  “ A hopeless  one  ! ” 

The  little  village  of  Hampton  Court  stands  clus- 
tered about  the  broad  entrance  of  Bushey  Park. 
After  we  had  dined  we  lounged  along  into  the  hazy 
vista  of  the  great  avenue  of  horse-chestnuts.  There 
is  a rare  emotion,  familiar  to  every  intelligent  trav- 
eller, in  which  the  mind,  with  a great  passionate 
throb,  achieves  a magical  synthesis  of  its  impres- 
sions. You  feel  England ; you  feel  Italy.  The  re- 
flection for  the  moment  has  an  extraordinary  poig- 
nancy. I had  known  it  from  time  to  time  in  Italy, 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


27 


and  had  opened  my  soul  to  it  as  to  the  spirit  of 
the  Lord.  Since  my  arrival  in  England  I had  been 
waiting  for  it  to  come.  A bottle  of  excellent  Bur- 
gundy at  dinner  had  perhaps  unlocked  to  it  the 
gates  of  sense;  it  came  now  with  a conquering 
tread.  Just  the  scene  around  me  was  the  England 
of  my  visions.  Over  against  us,  amid  the  deep-hued 
bloom  of  its  ordered  gardens,  the  dark  red  palace,  with 
its  formal  copings  and  its  vacant  windows,  seemed  to 
tell  of  a proud  and  splendid  past ; the  little  village 
nestling  between  park  and  palace,  around  a patch  of 
turfy  common,  with  its  tavern  of  gentility,  its  ivy- 
towered  church,  its  parsonage,  retained  to  my  modern- 
ized fancy  the  lurking  semblance  of  a feudal  hamlet. 
It  was  in  this  dark  composite  light  that  I had  read  all 
English  prose ; it  was  this  mild  moist  air  that  had 
blown  from  the  verses  of  English  poets ; beneath  these 
broad  acres  of  rain-deepened  greenness  a thousand 
honored  dead  lay  buried. 

“Well,”  I' said  to  my  friend,  “I  think  there  is  no 
mistake  about  this  being  England.  We  may  like  it 
or  not,  it’s  positive!  No  more  dense  and  stubborn 
fact  ever  settled  down  on  an  expectant  tourist.  It 
brings  my  heart  into  my  throat.” 

Searle  was  silent.  I looked  at  him ; he  was  looking 
up  at  the  sky,  as  if  he  were  watching  some  visible 
descent  of  the  elements.  “ On  me  too,”  he  said,  “ it ’s 


28 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


settling  down ! ” Then  with  a forced  smile  : “ Heaven 
give  me  strength  to  bear  it ! ” 

“ 0 mighty  world,”  I cried,  “ to  hold  at  once  so  rare 
an  Italy  and  so  brave  an  England ! ” 

“ To  say  nothing  of  America,”  added  Searle. 

“ 0,”  I answered,  “ America  has  a world  to  herself!  ” 

“ You  have  the  advantage  over  me,”  my  'companion 
resumed,  after  a pause,  “in  coming  to  all  this  with 
^an  educated  eye.  You  already  know  the  old.  I have 
never  known  it  but  by  report.  I have  always  fancied 
I should  like  it.  In  a small  way  at  home,  you  know, 
I have  tried  to  stick'to  the  old.  I must  be  a conserva- 
tive by  nature.  People  at  home  — a few  people  — 
used  to  call  me  a snob.” 

“I  don’t  believe  you  were  a snob,”  I cried.  “You 
look  too  amiable.” 

He  smiled  sadly.  “ There  it  is,”  he  said.  “ It ’s  the 
old  story  ! I ’m  amiable  ! I know  what  that  means  ! 
I was  too  great  a fool  to  be  even  a snob ! If  I had 
been  I should  probably  have  come  abroad  earlier  in 
life  — before  — before  — ” He  paused,  and  his  head 
dropped  sadly  on  his  breast. 

The  bottle  of  Burgundy  had  loosened  his  tongue. 
I felt  that  my  learning  his  story  was  merely  a question 
of  time.  Something  told  me  that  I had  gained  his 
confidence  and  he  would  unfold  himself.  “ Before  you 
lost  your  health,”  I said. 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


29 


“ Before  I lost  my  health/’  he  answered.  “ And  my 
property,  — the  little  I had.  And  my  ambition.  And 
my  self-esteem.” 

“Come!”  I said.  “You  shall  get  them  all  hack. 
This  tonic  English  climate  will  wind  you  up  in  a 
month.  And  with  the  return  of  health,  all  the  rest 
will  return.” 

He  sat  musing,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant 
palace.  “They  are  too  far  gone,  — self-esteem  espe- 
cially ! I should  like  to  be  an  old  genteel  pensioner, 
lodged  over  there  in  the  palace,  and  spending  my  days 
in  maundering  about  these  classic  haunts.  I should 
go  every  morning,  at  the  hour  when  it  gets  the  sun, 
into  that  long  gallery  where  all  those  pretty  women  of 
Lely’s  are  hung,  — I know  you 'despise  them!  — and 
stroll  up  and  down  and  pay  them  compliments.  Poor, 
precious,  forsaken  creatures  ! So  flattered  and  courted 
in  their  day,  so  neglected  now ! Offering  up  their 
shoulders  and  ringlets  and  smiles  to  that  inexorable 
solitude ! ” 

I patted  my  friend  on  the  shoulder.  “You  shall  be 
yourself  again  yet,”  I said. 

Just  at  this  moment  there  came  cantering  down  the 
shallow  glade  of  the  avenue  a young  girl  on  a fine 
black  horse,  — one  of  those  lovely  budding  gentle- 
women, perfectly  mounted  and  equipped,  who  form  to 
American  eyes  the  sweetest  incident  of  English  seen- 


30 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


ery.  She  had  distanced  her  servant,  and,  as  she  came 
abreast  of  us,  turned  slightly  in  her  saddle  and  looked 
back  at  him.  In  the  movement  she  dropped  her  whip. 
Drawing  in  her  horse,  she  cast  upon  the  ground  a 
glance  of  maidenly  alarm.  “ This  is  something  better 
than  a Lely,”  I said.  Searle  hastened  forward,  picked 
up  the  whip,  and  removing  his  hat  with  an  air  of  great 
devotion,  presented  it  to  the  young  girl.  Fluttered 
and  blushing,  she  reached  forward,  took  it  with  softly 
murmured  gratitude,  and  the  next  moment  was  bound- 
ing over  the  elastic  turf.  Searle  stood  watching  her; 
the  servant,  as  he  passed  us,  touched  his  hat.  When 
Searle  turned  toward  me  again,  I saw  that  his  face 
was  glowing  with  a violent  blush.  “ I doubt  of  your 
having  come  abroad  too  late  ! ” I said,  laughing. 

A short  distance  from  where  we  had  stopped  was  an 
old  stone  bench.  We  went  and  sat  down  on  it  and 
watched  the  light  mist  turning  to  sullen  gold  in  the 
rays  of  the  evening  sun.  “We  ought  to  be  thinking 
of  the  train  back  to  London,  I suppose,”  I said  at  last. 

“ 0,  hang  the  train  ! ” said  Searle. 

“ Willingly  ! There  could  be  no  better  spot  than 
this  to  feel  the  magic  of  an  English  twilight.”  So  we 
lingered,  and  the  twilight  lingered  around  us,  — a light 
and  not  a darkness.  As  we  sat,  there  came  trudging 
along  the  road  an  individual  whom,  from  afar,  I recog- 
nized as  a member  of  the  genus  “ tramp.”  I had  read 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


31 


of  the  British  tramp,  but  I had  never  yet  encountered 
him,  and  I brought  my  historic  consciousness  to  bear 
upon  the  present  specimen.  As  he  approached  us  he 
slackened  pace  and  finally  halted,  touching  his  cap. 
He  was  a man  of  middle  age,  clad  in  a greasy  bonnet, 
with  greasy  ear-locks  depending  from  its  sides.  Bound 
his  neck  was  a grimy  red  scarf,  tucked  into  his  waist- 
coat ; his  coat  and  trousers  had  a remote  affinity  with 
those  of  a reduced  hostler.  In  one  hand  he  had  a 
stick ; on  his  arm  he  bore  a tattered  basket,  with  a 
handful  of  withered  green  stuff  in  the  bottom.  His 
face  was  pale,  haggard,  and  degraded  beyond  descrip- 
tion, — a singular  mixture  of  brutality  and  finesse. 
He  had  a history.  From  what  height  had  he  fallen, 
from  what  depth  had  he  risen  ? Never  was  a form  of 
rascally  beggarhood  more  complete.  There  was  a 
merciless  fixedness  of  outline  about  him  which  filled 
me  with  a kind  of  awe.  I felt  as  if  I were  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a personage,  — an  artist  in  vagrancy. 

“ For  God’s  sake,  gentlemen,”  he  said,  in  that  rau- 
cous tone  of  weather-beaten  poverty  suggestive  of 
chronic  sore-throat  exacerbated  by  perpetual  gin, — 
“ for  God’s  sake,  gentlemen,  have  pity  on  a poor  fern- 
collector  ! ” — turning  up  his  stale  dandelions.  “ Food 
has  n’t  passed  my  lips,  gentlemen,  in  the  last  three 
days.” 

We  gaped  responsive,  in  the  precious  pity  of  guile- 


32 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


less  Yankeeism.  “I  wonder,”  thought  I,  "if  half  a 
crown  would  he  enough  ? ” And  our  fasting  botanist 
went  limping  away  through  the  park  with  a mystery 
of  satirical  gratitude  superadded  to  his  general  mys- 
tery. 

“ I feel  as  if  I had  seen  my  doppel-ganger”  said 
Searle.  “ He  reminds  me  of  myself.  What  am  I but 
a tramp  ? ” 

Upon  this  hint  I spoke.  "What  are  you,  my 
friend  ? ” I asked.  “ Who  are  you  ? ” 

A sudden  blush  rose  to  his  pale  face,  so  that  I feared 
I had  offended  him.  He  poked  a moment  at  the 
sod  with  the  point  of  his  umbrella,  before  answering. 
“ Who  am  I ? ” he  said  at  last.  “ My  name  is  Clement 
Searle.  I was  born  in  New  York.  I have  lived  in 
New  York.  What  am  I ? That ’s  easily  told.  Noth- 
ing ! I assure  you,  nothing.” 

“ A very  good  fellow,  apparently,”  I protested. 

A very  good  fellow  ! Ah,  there  it  is  ! You Ve  said 
more  than  you  mean.  It ’s  by  having  been  a very  good 
fellow  all  my  days  that  I Ve  come  to  this.  I have 
drifted  through  life.  I ’m  a failure,  sir,  — a failure  as 
hopeless  and  helpless  as  any  that  ever  swallowed  up 
the  slender  investments  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan. 
I don’t  pay  five  cents  on  the  dollar.  Of  what  I was  to 
begin  with  no  memory  remains.  I have  been  ebbing 
away,  from  the  start,  in  a steady  current  which,  at 


A PASSIONATE  TILGRIM. 


33 


forty,  has  left  this  arid  sand-bank  behind.  To  begin 
with,  certainly,  I was  not  a fountain  of  wisdom.  All 
the  more  reason  for  a definite  channel,4* — for  will  and 
purpose  and  direction.  I walked  by  chance  and  sym- 
pathy and  sentiment.  Take  a turn  through  New  York 
and  you  ’ll  find  my  tattered  sympathies  and  sentiments 
dangling  on  every  bush  and  fluttering  in  every  breeze ; 
the  men  to  whom  I lent  money,  the  women  to  whom  I 
made  love,  the  friends  I trusted,  the  dreams  I cher- 
ished, the  poisonous  fumes  of  pleasure,  amid  which 
nothing  was  sweet  or  precious  but  the  manhood  they 
stifled ! It  was  my  fault  that  I believed  in  pleasure 
here  below.  I believe  in  it  still,  but  as  I believe  in 
God  and  not  in  man  ! I believed  in  eating  your  cake 
and  having  it.  I respected  Pleasure,  and  she  made  a 
fool  of  me.  Other  men,  treating  her  like  the  arrant 
strumpet  she  is,  enjoyed  her  for  the  hour,  but  kept 
their  good  manners  for  plain-faced  Business,  with  the 
larger  dowry,  to  whom  they  are  now  lawfully  mar- 
ried. My  taste  was  to  be  delicate ; well,  perhaps  I 
was  so ! I had  a little  money ; it  went  the  way  of 
my  little  wit.  Here  in  my  pocket  I have  forty  pounds 
of  it  left.  The  only  thing  I have  to  show  for  my 
money  and  my  wit  is  a little  volume  of  verses,  printed 
at  my  own  expense,  in  which  fifteen  years  ago  I made 
bold  to  sing  the  charms  of  love  and  idleness.  Six 
months  since  I got  hold  of  the  volume ; it  reads  like 
2* 


O 


34 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


the  poetry  of  fifty  years  ago.  The  form  is  incredible. 
I had  n’t  seen  Hampton  Court  then.  When  I was 
thirty  I married.  It  was  a sad  mistake,  but  a gener- 
ous one.  The  young  girl  was  poor  and  obscure,  but 
beautiful  and  proud.  I fancied  she  would  make  an 
incomparable  woman.  It  was  a sad  mistake ! She 
died  at  the  end  of  three  years,  leaving  no  children. 
Since  then  I have  idled  long.  I have  had  bad  habits. 
To  this  impalpable  thread  of  existence  the  current  of 
my  life  has  shrunk.  To-morrow  I shall  be  high  and 
dry.  Was  I meant  to  come  to  this  ? Upon  my 
soul  I was  n’t ! If  I say  what  I feel,  you  ’ll  fancy 
my  vanity  quite  equal  to  my  folly,  and  set  me 
down  as  one  of  those  dreary  theorizers  after  the 
fact,  who  draw  any  moral  from  their  misfortunes 
but  the  damning  moral  that  vice  is  vice  and  that ’s 
an  end  of  it.  Take  it  for  what  it ’s  worth.  I have 
always  fancied  that  I was  meant  for  a gentler  world. 
Before  heaven,  sir,  — whoever  you  are,  — I ’m  in  prac- 
tice so  absurdly  tender-hearted  that  I can  afford  to 
say  it,  — I came  into  the  world  an  aristocrat.  I was 
born  with  a soul  for  the  picturesque.  It  condemns 
me,  I confess ; but  in  a measure,  too,  it  absolves  me. 
I found  it  nowhere.  I found  a world  all 'hard  lines 
and  harsh  lights,  without  shade,  without  composition, 
as  they  say  of  pictures,  without  the  lovely  mystery 
of  color.  To  furnish  color,  I melted  down  the  very 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


35 


substance  of  my  own  soul.  I went  about  with  my 
brush,  touching  up  and  toning  down ; a very  pretty 
chiaroscuro  you  ’ll  find  in  my  track  ! Sitting  here, 
in  this  old  park,  in  this  old  land,  I feel  — I feel  that 
I hover  on  the  misty  verge  of  what  might  have  been  ! 
I should  have  been  born  here  and  not  there ; here 
my  vulgar  idleness  would  have  been  — don’t  laugh 
now ! — would  have  been  elegant  leisure.  How  it  was 
that  I never  came  abroad  is  more  than  I can  say.  It 
might  have  cut  the  knot ; but  the  knot  was  too  tight. 
I was  always,  unwell  or  in  debt  or  entangled.  Besides, 
I had  a horror  of  the  sea,  — with  reason,  heaven 
knows  ! A year  ago  I was  reminded  of  the  existence 
of  an  old  claim  to  a portion  of  a£  English  estate, 
cherished  off  and  on  by  various  members  of  my  family 
for  the  past  eighty  years.  It ’s  undeniably  slender  and 
desperately  hard  to  define.  I am  by  no  means  sure 
that  to  this  hour  I have  mastered  it.  You  look  as 
if  you  had  a clear  head.  Some  other  time,  if  you  ’ll 
consent,  we  ’ll  puzzle  it  out,  such  as  it  is,  together. 
Poverty  was  staring  me  in  the  face ; I sat  down  and 
got  my  claim  by  heart,  as  I used  to  get  nine  times 
nine  as  a boy.  I dreamed  about  it  for  six  months, 
half  expecting  to  wake  up  some  fine  morning  to  hear 
through  a latticed  casement  the  cawing  of  an  English 
rookery.  A couple  of  months  since  there  came  out 
here  on  business  of  his  own  a sort  of  half-friend  of 


36 


A PASSIONATE  FILGRIM. 


mine,  a sharp  New  York  lawyer,  an  extremely  common 
fellow,  but  a man  with  an  eye  for  the  weak  point  and 
the  strong  point.  It  was  with  him  yesterday  that  you 
saw  me  dining.  He  undertook,  as  he  expressed  it,  to 
‘nose  round’  and  see  if  anything  could  be  made  of 
this  pretended  right.  The  matter  had  never  seriously 
been  taken  up.  A month  later  I got  a letter  from 
Simmons,  assuring  me  that  things  looked  mighty  well, 
that  he  should  be  vastly  amazed  if  I hadn’t  a case. 
I took  fire  in  a humid  sort  of  way;  I acted,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life;  I sailed  for  England.  I have 
been  here  three  days : it  seems  three  months.  After 
keeping  me  waiting  for  thirty-six  hours,  last  evening 
my  precious  Simmons  makes  his  appearance  and  in- 
forms me,  with  his  mouth  full  of  mutton,  that  I was 
a blasted  fool  to  have  taken  him  at  his  word ; that  he 
had  been  precipitate ; that  I had  been  precipitate ; that 
my  claim  was  moonshine ; and  that  I must  do  penance 
and  take  a ticket  for  another  fortnight  of  seasickness 
in  his  agreeable  society.  My  friend,  my  friend  ! Shall 
I say  I was  disappointed  ? I’m  already  resigned.  I 
doubted  the  practicability  of  my  claim.  I felt  ip  my 
deeper  consciousness  that  it  was  the  crowning  illusion 
of  a life  of  illusions.  Well,  it  was  a pretty  one.  Poor 
Simmons  ! I forgive  him  with  all  my  heart.  But  for 
him  I should  n’t  be  sitting  in  this  place,  in  this  air, 
with  these  thoughts.  This  is  a world  I could  have 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


37 


loved.  There ’s  a great  fitness  in  its  having  been  kept 
for  the  last.  After  this  nothing  would  have  been  tol- 
erable. I shall  now  have  a month  of  it,  I hope,  and 
I shall  not  have  a chance  to  be  disenchanted.  There ’s 
one  thing ! ” — and  here,  pausing,  he  laid  his  hand  on 
mine ; I rose  and  stood  before  him,  — “I  wish  it  were 
possible  you  should  be  with  me  to  the  end.” 

“ I promise  you,”  I said,  “ to  leave  you  only  at  your 
own  request.  But  it  must  be  on  condition  of  your 
omitting  from  your  conversation  this  intolerable  flavor 
of  mortality.  The  end ! Perhaps  it ’s  the  begin- 
ning.” 

He  shook  his  head.  “ You  don’t  know  me.  It ’s  a 
long  story.  I ’m  incurably  ill.” 

“I  know  you  a little.  I have  a strong  suspicion 
that  your  illness  is  in  great  measure  a matter  of  mind 
and  spirits.  All  that  you  Ve  told  me  is  but  another 
way  of  saying  that  you  have  lived  hitherto  in  your- 
self. The  tenement ’s  haunted  ! Live  abroad ! Take 
an  interest ! ” 

He  looked  at  me  for  a moment  with  his  sad  weak 
eyes.  Then  with  a faint  smile : “ Don’t  cut  down  a 
man  you  find  hanging.  He  has  had  a reason  for  it. 
I ’m  bankrupt.” 

“ 0,  health  is  money ! ” I said.  “ Get  well,  and  the 
rest  will  take  care  of  itself.  I ’m  interested  in  your 
claim.” 


38 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


“ Don’t  ask  me  to  expound  it  now  ! It ’s  a sad 
muddle.  Let  it  alone.  I know  nothing  of  business. 
If  I myself  were  to  take  the  matter  in  hand,  I should 
break  short  off  the  poor  little  silken  thread  of  my 
expectancy.  In  a better  world  than  this  I think  I 
should  be  listened  to.  But  in  this  hard  world  there ’s 
small  bestowal  of  ideal  justice.  There  is  no  doubt,  I 
fancy,  that,  a hundred  years  ago,  we  suffered  a palpa- 
ble wrong.  But  we  made  no  appeal  at  the  time,  and 
the  dust  of  a century  now  lies  heaped  upon  our 
silence.  Let  it  rest ! ” 

“What  is  the  estimated  value  of  your  interest?” 

“We  were  instructed  from  the  first  to  accept  a 
compromise.  Compared  with  the  whole  property,  our 
utmost  right  is  extremely  small.  Simmons  talked  of 
eighty-five  thousand  dollars.  Why  eighty-five  I ’in 
sure  I don’t  know.  Don’t  beguile  me  into  figures.” 

“ Allow  me  one  more  question.  Who  is  actually  in 
possession  ? ” 

“A  certain  Mr.  Richard  Searle.  I know  nothing 
about  him.” 

“ He  is  in  some  way  related  to  you  ? ” 

“ Our  great-grandfathers  were  half-brothers.  What 
does  that  make  ? ” 

“ Twentieth  cousins,  say.  And  where  does  your 
twentieth  cousin  live  ? ” 


“ At  Lockley  Park,  Herefordshire/ 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


39  * 


I pondered  awhile.  “ I ’m  interested  in  you,  Mr. 
Searle,”  I said.  “ In  your  story,  in  your  title,  such  as 
it  is,  and  in  this  Lockley  Park,  Herefordshire.  Sup- 
pose we  go  down  and  see  it.” 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a certain  alertness.  “ I 
shall  make  a sound  man  of  him,  yet,”  I said  to 
myself. 

“ I should  n’t  have  the  heart,”  he  said,  “ to  accom- 
plish the  melancholy  pilgrimage  alone.  But  with  you 
I ’ll  go  anywhere.” 

On  our  return  to  London  we  determined  to  spend 
three  days  there  together,  and  then  to  go  into  the 
country.  We  felt  to  excellent  purpose  the  sombre 
charm  of  London,  the  mighty  mother-city  of  our  \/ 
mighty  race,  the  great  distributing  heart  of  our  tradi- 
tional life.  Certain  London  characteristics  — monu- 
ments, relics,  hints  of  history,  local  moods  and  mem- 
ories— are  more  deeply  suggestive  to  an  American 
soul  than  anything  else  in  Europe.  With  an  equal  at- 
tentive piety  my  friend  and  I glanced  at  these  things. 
Their  influence  on  Searle  was  deep  and  singular. 

His  observation  I soon  perceived  to  be  extremely 
acute.  His  almost  passionate  relish  for  the  old,  the 
artificial,  and  social,  wellnigh  extinct  from  its  long 
inanition,  began  now  to  tremble  and  thrill  with  a 
tardy  vitality.  I watched  in  silent  wonderment  this 
strange  metaphysical  renascence. 


40 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


Between  the  fair  boundaries  of  the  counties  of 
Hereford  and  Worcester  rise  in  a long  undulation  the 
sloping  pastures  of  the  Malvern  Hills.  Consulting  a 
big  red  book  on  the  castles  and  manors  of  England, 
we  found  Lockley  Park  to  be  seated  near  the  base 
of  this  grassy  range,  — though  in  which  county  I 
forget.  In  the  pages  of  this  genial  volume,  Lockley 
Park  and  its  appurtenances  ’ made  a very  handsome 
figure.  We  took  up  our  abode  at  a certain  little  way- 
side  inn,  at  which  in  the  days  of  leisure  the  coach 
must  have  stopped  for  lunch,  and  burnished  pewters 
of  rustic  ale  been  tenderly  exalted  to  “outsides”  athirst 
with  breezy  progression.  Here  we  stopped,  for  sheer 
admiration  of  its  steep  thatched  roof,  its  latticed  win- 
dows, and  its  homely  porch.  We  allowed  a couple 
of  days  to  elapse  in  vague,  undirected  strolls  and 
sweet  sentimental  observance  of  the  land,  before  we 
prepared  to  execute  the  especial  purpose  of  our  jour- 
ney. This  admirable  region  is  a compendium  of  the 
general  physiognomy  of  England.  The  noble  friendli- 
ness of  the  scenery,  its  subtle  old-friendliness,  the 
magical  familiarity  of  multitudinous  details,  appealed 
to  us  at  every  step  and  at  every  glance.  Deep  in  our 
souls  a natural  affection  answered.  The  whole  land,  in 
the  full,  warm  rains  of  the  last  of  April,  had  burst  into 
sudden  perfect  spring.  The  dark  walls  of  the  hedge- 
rows had  turned  into  blooming  screens;  the  sodden 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


41 


verdure  of  lawn  and  meadow  was  streaked  with  a 
ranker  freshness.  We  went  forth  without  loss  of  time 
for  a long  walk  on  the  hills.  Reaching  their  summits, 
you  find  half  England  unrolled  at  your  feet.  A dozen 
broad  counties,  within  the  vast  range  of  your  vision, 
commingle  their  green  exhalations.  Closely  beneath 
us  lay  the  dark,  rich  flats  of  hedgy  Worcestershire  and 
the  copse-checkered  slopes  of  rolling  Hereford,  white 
with  the  blossom  of  apples.  At  widely  opposite  points 
of  the  large  expanse  two  great  cathedral  towers  rise 
sharply,  taking  the  light,  from  the  settled  shadow 
of  their  circling  towns,  — the  light,  the  ineffable  Eng- 
lish light ! “ Out  of  England,”  cried  Searle,  “ it ’s  but 

a garish  world.!  ” 

The  whole  vast  sweep  of  our  surrounding  prospect 
lay  answering  in  a myriad  fleeting  shades  the  cloudy 
process  of  the  tremendous  sky.  The  English  heaven 
is  a fit  antithesis  to  the  complex  English  earth.  We 
possess  in  America  the  infinite  beauty  of  the  blue;\/ 
England  possesses  the  splendor  of  combined  and  ani- 
mated clouds.  Over  against  us,  from  our  station  on 
the  hills,  we  saw  them  piled  and  dissolved,  compacted 
and  shifted,  blotting  the  azure  with  sullen  rain  spots, 
stretching,  breeze-fretted,  into  dappled  fields  of  gray, 
bursting  into  a storm  of  light  or  melting  into  a driz- 
zle of  silver.  We  made  our  way  along  the  rounded 
summits  of  these  well-grazed  heights,  — mild,  breezy 


42 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


inland  downs,  — and  descended  through  long-drawn 
slopes  of  fields,  green  to  cottage  doors,  to  where  a 
rural  village  beckoned  us  from  its  seat  among  the 
meadows.  Close  beside  it,  I admit,  the  railway  shoots 
fiercely  from  its  tunnel  in  the  hills;  and  yet  there 
broods  upon  this  charming  hamlet  an  old-time  quie- 
tude and  privacy,  which  seems  to  make  it  a violation 
of  confidence  to  tell  its  name  so  far  away.  We  struck 
through  a narrow  lane,  a green  lane,  dim  with  its 
height  of  hedges ; it  led  us  to  a superb  old  farm- 
house, now  jostled  by  the  multiplied  lanes  and  roads 
which  have  curtailed  its  ancient  appanage.  It  stands 
in  stubborn  picturesqueness,  at  the  receipt  of  sad-eyed 
contemplation  and  the  sufferance  of  “sketches.”  I 
doubt  whether  out  of  Nuremberg  — or  Pompeii! — - 
you  may  find  so  forcible  an  image  of  the  domiciliary 
genius  of  the  past.  It  is  cruelly  complete : its  bended 
beams  and  joists,  beneath  the  burden  of  its  gables, 
seem  to  ache  and  groan  with  memories  and  regrets. 
The  short,  low  windows,  where  lead  and  glass  combine 
in  equal  proportions  to  hint  to  the  wondering  stranger 
of  the  medkeval  gloom  within,  still  prefer  their  dark- 
some office  to  the  grace  of  modern  day.  Such  an  old 
y house  fills  an  American  with  an  indefinable  feeling  of 
respect.  So  propped  and  patched  and  tinkered  with 
clumsy  tenderness,  clustered  so  richly  about  its  central 
English  sturdiness,  its  oaken  vertebrations,  so  human- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


43 


ized  with  ages  of  use  and  touches  of  beneficent  affec- 
tion, it  seemed  to  offer  to  our  grateful  eyes  a small, 
rude  synthesis  of  the  great  English  social  order.  Pass- 
ing out  upon  the  high-road,  we  came  to  the  common 
browsing-patch,  the  “ village  green  ” of  the  tales  of  our 
youth.  Nothing  was  wanting;  the  shaggy,  mouse- 
colored  donkey,  nosing  the  turf  with  his  mild  and 
huge  proboscis,  the  geese,  the  old  woman,  — the  old 
woman,  in  person,  with  her  red  cloak  and  her  black 
bonnet,  frilled  about  the  face  and  double-frilled  beside 
her  decent,  placid  cheeks,  — the  towering  ploughman 
with  his  white  smock-frock,  puckered  on  chest  and 
back,  his  short  corduroys,  his  mighty  calves,  his  big, 
red,  rural  face.  We  greeted  these  things  as  children 
greet  the  loved  pictures  in  a story-book,  lost  and 
mourned  and  found  again.  It  was  marvellous  how 
well  we  knew  them.  Beside  the  road  we  saw  a 
ploughboy  straddle,  whistling,  on  a stile.  Gainsbor- 
ough might  have  painted  him.  Beyond  the  stile, 
across  the  level  velvet  of  a meadow,  a footpath  lay, 
like  a thread  of  darker  woof.  We  followed  it  from 
field  to  field  and  from  stile  to  stile.  It  was  the  way 
to  church.  At  the  church  we  finally  arrived,  lost  in 
its  rook-haunted  churchyard,  hidden  from  the  work- 
day world  by  the  broad  stillness  of  pastures,  — a gray, 
gray  tower,  a huge  black  yew,  a cluster  of  village 
graves,  with  crooked  headstones,  in  grassy,  low  relief. 


44 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


The  whole  scene  was  deeply  ecclesiastical.  My  com- 
panion was  overcome. 

“ You  must  bury  me  here,”  he  cried.  “ It ’s  the 
first  church  I have  seen  in  my  life.  How  it  makes  a 
Sunday  where  it  stands  ! ” 

The  next  day  we  saw  a church  of  statelier  propor- 
tions. We  walked  over  to  Worcester,  through  such  a 
mist  of  local  color,  that  I felt  like  one  of  Smollett's 
pedestrian  heroes,  faring  tavernward  for  a night  of 
adventures.  As  we  neared  the  provincial  city  we  saw 
the  steepled  mass  of  the  cathedral,  long  and  high,  rise 
far  into  the  cloud-freckled  blue.  And  as  we  came 
nearer  still,  we  stopped  on  the  bridge  and  viewed  the 
solid  minster  reflected  in  the  yellow  Severn.  And 
going  farther  yet  we  entered  the  town,  — where  surely 
Miss  Austen’s  heroines,  in  chariots  and  curricles,  must 
often  have  come  a shopping  for  swan’s-down  boas  and 
high  lace  mittens ; — we  lounged  about  the  gentle 
close  and  gazed  insatiably  at  that  most  soul-soothing 
sight,  the  waning,  wasting  afternoon  light,  the  visible 
ether  which  feels  the  voices  of  the  chimes,  far  aloft  on 
the  broad  perpendicular  field  of  the  cathedral  tower; 
saw  it  linger  and  nestle  and  abide,  as  it  loves  to  do 
on  all  bold  architectural  spaces,  converting  them  gra- 
ciously into  registers  and  witnesses  of  nature ; tasted, 
too,  as  deeply  of  the  peculiar  stillness  of  this  clerical 
precinct ; saw  a rosy  English  lad  come  forth  and  lock 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


45 


the  door  of  the  old  foundation  school,  which  marries 
its  hoary  basement  to  the  soaring  Gothic  of  the  church, 
and  carry  his  big  responsible  key  into  one  of  the  quiet 
canonical  houses ; and  then  stood  musing  together  on 
the  effect  on  one’s  mind  of  having  in  one’s  boyhood 
haunted  such  cathedral  shades  as  a King’s  scholar,  and 
yet  kept  ruddy  with  much  cricket  in  misty  meadows 
by  the  Severn.  On  the  third  morning  we  betook  our- 
selves to  Lockley  Park,  having  learned  that  the  greater 
part  of  it  was  open  to  visitors,  and  that,  indeed,  on 
application,  the  house  was  occasionally  shown. 

Within  its  broad  enclosure  many  a declining  spur 
of  the  great  hills  melted  into  parklike  slopes  and  dells. 
A long  avenue  wound  and  circled  from  the  outermost 
gate  through  an  untrimmed  woodland,  whence  you 
glanced  at  further  slopes  and  glades  and  copses  and 
bosky  recesses,  — at  everything  except  the  limits  of 
the  place.  It  was  as  free  and  wild  and  untended  as 
the  villa,  of  an  Italian  prince ; and  I have  never  seen 
the  stern  English  fact  of  property  put  on  such  an  air 
of  innocence.  The  weather  had  just  become  perfect; 
it  was  one  of  the  dozen  exquisite  days  of  the  English 
year,  — days  stamped  with  a refinement  of  purity  un- 
known in  more  liberal  climes.  It  was  as  if  the  mellow 
brightness,  as  tender  as  that  of  the  primroses  which 
starred  the  dark  waysides  like  petals  wind-scattered 
over  beds  of  moss,  had  been  meted  out  to  us  by  the 


46 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


cubic  foot,  — tempered,  refined,  recorded!  From  this 
external  region  we  passed  into  the  heart  of  the  park, 
through  a second  lodge-gate,  with  weather-worn  gild- 
ing on  its  twisted  bars,  to  the  smooth  slopes  where 
the  great  trees  stood  singly  and  the  tame  deer  browsed 
along  the  bed  of  a woodland  stream.  Hence,  before 
us,  we  perceived  the  dark  Elizabethan  manor  among 
its  blooming  parterres  and  terraces. 

“ Here  you  can  wander  all  day,”  I said  to  Searle, 
“like  a proscribed  and  exiled  prince,  hovering  about 
the  dominion  of  the  usurper.”  * 

“ To  think,”  he  answered,  “ of  people  having  enjoyed 
this  all  these  years ! I know  what  I am,  — what 
might  I have  been  ? What  does  all  this  make  of 
you  ? ” 

“ That  it  makes  you  happy,”  I said,  “ I should  hes- 
itate to  believe.  But  it  ’s  hard  to  suppose  that  such  a 
place  has  not  some  beneficent  action  of  its  own.” 

“ What  a perfect  scene  and  background  it  forms ! ” 
Searle  went  on.  “What  legends,  what  histories  it 
knows  ! My  heart  is  breaking  with  unutterable  vis- 
ions. There’s  Tennyson’s  Talking* Oak.  What  sum- 
mer days  one  could  spend  here  ! How  I could  lounge 
my  bit  of  life  away  on  this  shady  stretch  of  turf! 
Have  n’t  I some  maiden-cousin  in  yon  moated  grange 
who  would  give  me  kind  leave  ? ” And  then  turning 
almost  fiercely  upon  me:  “Why  did  you  bring  ine 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


47 


here  ? Why  did  you  drag  me  into  this  torment  of 
vain  regrets  ? ” 

At  this  moment  there  passed  near  us  a servant 
who  had  emerged  from  the  gardens  of  the  great 
house.  I hailed  him  and  inquired  whether  we  should 
be  likely  to  gain  admittance.  He  answered  that  Mr. 
Searle  was  away  from  home,  and  that  he  thought 
it  probable  the  housekeeper  would  consent  to  do 
the  honors  of  the  mansion.  I passed  my  arm  into 
Searle’s.  “Come,”  I said.  “Drain  the  cup,  bitter- 
sweet though  it  be.  We  shall  go  in.”  We  passed  an- 
other lodge-gate  and  entered  the  gardens.  The  house 
was  an  admirable  specimen  of  complete  Elizabethan, 
a multitudinous  cluster  of  gables  and  porches,  oriels 
and  turrets,  screens  of  ivy  and  pinnacles  of  slate. 
Two  broad  terraces  commanded  the  great  wooded 
horizon  of  the  adjacent  domain.  Our  summons  was 
answered  by  the  butler  in  person,  solemn  and  tout 
do  noir  habilM.  He  repeated  the  statement  that  Mr. 
Searle  was  away  from  home,  and  that  he  would  pre- 
sent our  petition  to  the  housekeeper.  We  would  be  so 
good,  however,  as  to*give  him  our  cards.  This  request, 
following  so  directly  on  the  assertion  that  Mr.  Searle 
was  absent,  seemed  to  my  companion  not  distinctly 
pertinent.  “ Surely  not  for  the  housekeeper,”  he  said. 

The  butler  gave  a deferential  cough.  “ Miss  Searle 
is  at  home.” 


48  A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 

\ 

“ Yours  alone  will  suffice,”  said  Searle.  I took  out 
a card  and  pencil,  and  wrote  beneath  my  name,  New 
York.  Standing  with  the  pencil  in  my  hand  I felt 
a sudden  impulse.  Without  in  the  least  weighing 
proprieties  or  results,  I yielded  to  it.  I added  above 
my  name,  Mr.  Clement  Searle . What  would  come 
of  it  ? 

Before  many  minutes  the  housekeeper  attended  us, 
— a fresh  rosy  little  old  woman  in  a dowdy  clean 
cap  and  a scanty  calico  gown ; an  exquisite  speci- 
men of  refined  and  venerable  servility.  She  had  the 
accent  of  the  country,  but  the  manners  of  the  house. 
Under  her  guidance  we  passed  through  a dozen 
apartments,  duly  stocked  with  old  pictures,  old  tap- 
estry, old  carvings,  old  armor,  with  all  the  constitu- 
ent properties  of  an  English  manor.  The  pictures 
were  especially  valuable.  The  two  Vandykes,  the  trio 
of  rosy  Bubenses,  the  sole  and  sombre  Rembrandt, 
glowed  with  conscious  authenticity.  A Claude,  a 
Murillo,  a Greuze,  and  a Gainsborough  hung  gracious 
in  their  chosen  places.  Searle  strolled  about  silent, 
pale,  and  grave,  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  lips  com- 
pressed. He  uttered  no  comment  and  asked  no  ques- 
tion. Missing  him,  at  last,  from  my  side,  I retraced 
my  steps  and  found  him  in  a room  we  had  just  left, 
on  a tarnished  silken  divan,  with  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands.  Before  him,  ranged  on  an  antique  buffet, 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


49 


was  a magnificent  collection  of  old  Italian  majolica ; 
huge  platters  radiant  with  their  steady  colors,  jugs 
and  vases  nobly  bellied  and  embossed.  There  came 
to  me,  as  I looked,  a sudden  vision  of  the  young  Eng- 
lish gentleman,  who,  eighty  years  ago,  had  travelled 
by  slow  stages  to  Italy  and  been  waited  on  at  his 
inn  by  persuasive  toymen.  “ What  is  it,  Searle  ? ” I 
asked.  “Are  you  unwell ?” 

He  uncovered  his  haggard  face  and  showed  a burn- 
ing blush.  Then  smiling  in  hot  irony:  “A  memory 
of  the  past!  I was  thinking  of  a china  vase  that 
used  to  stand  on  the  parlor  mantel-shelf  while  I was 
a boy,  with  the  portrait  of  General  Jackson  painted 
on  one  side  and  a bunch  of  flowers  on  the  other. 
How  long  do  you  suppose  that  majolica  has  been 
in  the  family  ? ” 

“A  long  time  probably.  It  was  brought  hither  in 
the  last  century,  into  old,  old  England,  out  of  old,  old 
Italy,  by  some  old  young  buck  of  this  excellent  house 
with  a taste  for  chinoiseries.  Here  it  has  stood  for  a 
hundred  years,  keeping  its  clear,  firm  hues  in  this 
aristocratic  twilight.” 

Searle  sprang  to  his  feet.  “I  say,”  he  cried,  “in 
heaven’s  name  take  me  away ! I can’t  stand  this. 
Before  I know  it  I shall  do  something  I shall  be 
ashamed  of.  I shall  steal  one  of  their  d — d majolicas. 
I shall  proclaim  my  identity  and  assert  my  rights! 

3 


D 


50 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


I shall  go  blubbering  to  Miss  Searle  and  ask  her  in 
pity’s  name  to  keep  me  here  for  a month ! ” 

If  poor  Searle  could  ever  have  been  said  to  look 
“ dangerous,”  he  looked  so  now.  I began  to  regret 
my  officious  presentation  of  his  name,  and  prepared 
without  delay  to  lead  him  out  of  the  house.  We 
overtook  the  housekeeper  in  the  last  room  of  the 
suite,  a small,  unused  boudoir,  over  the  chimney- 
piece  of  which  hung  a noble  portrait  of  a young  man 
in  a powdered  wig  and  a brocaded  waistcoat.  I was 
immediately  struck  with  his  resemblance  to  my  com- 
panion. 

“This  is  Mr.  Clement  Searle,  Mr.  Searle’s  great- 
uncle,  by  Sir  Joshua  Keynolds,”  quoth  the  house- 
keeper. “He  died  young,  poor  gentleman.  He  per- 
ished at  sea,  going  to  America.” 

“He’s  the  young  buck,”  I said,  “who  brought  the 
majolica  out  of  Italy.” 

“ Indeed,  sir,  I believe  he  did,”  said  the  housekeeper, 
staring. 

“ He ’s  the  image  of  you,  Searle,”  I murmured. 

“ He ’s  wonderfully  like  the  gentleman,  saving  his 
presence,”  said  the  housekeeper. 

My  friend  stood  gazing.  “ Clement  Searle  — at  sea 
— going  to  America  — ” he  muttered.  Then  harshly, 
to  the  housekeeper,  “Why  the  deuce  did  he  go  to 
America  ? ” 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


51 


“Why,  indeed,  sir?  You  may  well  ask.  I believe 
he  had  kinsfolk  there.  It  was  for  them  to  come  to 
him.” 

Searle  broke  into  a laugh.  “It  was  for  them  to 
have  come  to  him ! Well,  well,”  he  said,  fixing  his 
eyes  on  the  little  old  woman,  “they  have  come  to 
him  at  last!” 

She  blushed  like  a wrinkled  rose-leaf.  “Indeed, 
sir,”  she  said,  “ I verily  believe  that  you  are  one  of 

us  r 

“ My  name  is  the  name  of  that  lovely  youth,”  Searle 
went  on.  “ Kinsman,  I salute  you ! Attend ! ” And 
he  grasped  me  by  the  arm.  “I  have  an  idea!  He 
perished  at  sea.  His  spirit  came  ashore  and  wandered 
forlorn  till  it  got  lodgment  again  in  my  poor  body. 
In  my  poor  body  it  has  lived,  homesick,  these  forty 
years,  shaking  its  rickety  cage,  urging  me,  stupid,  to 
carry  it  back  to  the  scenes  of  its  youth.  And  I never 
knew  what  was  the  matter  with  me ! Let  me  exhale 
my  spirit  here!” 

The  housekeeper  essayed  a timorous  smile.  The 
scene  was  embarrassing.  My  confusion  was  not  al- 
layed when  I suddenly  perceived  in  the  doorway  the 
figure  of  a lady.  “ Miss  Searle  ! ” whispered  the  house- 
keeper. My  first  impression  of  Miss  Searle  was  that 
she  was  neither  young  nor  beautiful.  She  stood  with 
a timid  air  on  the  threshold,  pale,  trying  to  smile,  and 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILfJNOSS 


52 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


twirling  my  card  in  liter  fingers.  I immediately  bowed. 
Searle,  I think,  gazed  marvelling. 

“ If  I am  not  mistaken,”  said  the  lady,  “ one  of  you  a 
gentlemen  is  Mr.  Clement  Searle.” 

“ My  friend  is  Mr.  Clement  Searle,”  I replied.  “ Al- 
low me  to  add  that  I alone  am  responsible  for  your 
having  received  his  name.” 

“I  should  have  been  sorry  not  to  receive  it,”  said 
Miss  Searle,  beginning  to  blush.  “Your  being  from 
America  has  led  me  to  — to  interrupt  you.” 

“The  interruption,  madam,  has  been  on  our  part. 
And  with  just  that  excuse,  — that  we  are  from  Amer- 
ica.” 

Miss  Searle,  while  I spoke,  had  fixed  her  eyes  on 
my  friend,  as  he  stood  silent  beneath  Sir  Joshua’s 
portrait.  The  housekeeper,  amazed  and  mystified, 
took  a liberty.  “ Heaven  preserve  us,  Miss ! It ’s 
your  great-uncle’s  picture  come  to  life.” 

“I’m  not  mistaken,  then,”  said  Miss  Searle.  “We 
are  distantly  related.”  She  had  the  aspect  of  an  ex- 
tremely modest  woman.  She  was  evidently  embar- 
rassed at  having  to  proceed  unassisted  in  her  overture. 
Searle  eyed  her  witli  gentle  wonder  from  head  to  foot. 

I fancied  I read  his  thoughts.  This,  then,  was  Miss 
Searle,  his  maiden-cousin,  prospective  heiress  of  these 
manorial  acres  and  treasures.  She  was  a person  of 
about  thirty-three  years  of  age,  taller  than  most  wo- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


53 


men,  with  health  and  strength  in  the  rounded  ampli- 
tude of  her  shape.  She  had  a small  blue  eye,  a 
massive  chignon  of  yellow  hair,  and  a mouth  at  once 
broad  and  comely.  She  was  dressed  in  a lustreless 
black  satin  gown,  with  a short  train.  Around  her 
neck  she  wore  a blue  silk  handkerchief,  and  over 
this  handkerchief,  in  many  convolutions,  a string  of 
amber  beads.  Her  appearance  was  singular ; she  was 
large,  yet  not  imposing ; girlish,  yet  mature.  Her 
glance  and  accent,  in  addressing  us,  were  simple,  too 
simple.  Searle,  I think,  had  been  fancying  some 
proud  cold  beauty  of  five-and-twenty ; he  was  re- 
lieved at  finding  the  lady  timid  and  plain.  His  per- 
son was  suddenly  illumined  with  an  old  disused  gal- 
lantry. 

“We  are  distant  cousins,  I believe.  I am  happy 
to  claim  a relationship  which  you  are  so  good  as  to 
remember.  I had  not  in  the  least  counted  on  your 
doing  so.” 

“Perhaps  I have  done  wrong,”  and  Miss  Searle 
blushed  anew  and  smiled.  “ But  I have  always  known 
of  there  being  people  of  our  blood  in  America,  and  I 
have  often  wondered  and  asked  about  them ; without 
learning  much,  however.  To-day,  when  this  card  was 
brought  me  and  I knew  of  a Clement  Searle  wan- 
dering about  the  house  like  a stranger,  I felt  as  if  I 
ought  to  do  something.  I hardly  knew  what!  My 


54 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


brother  is  in  London.  I have  done  what  I think  he 
would  have  done.  Welcome,  as  a cousin.”  And 
with  a gesture  at  once  frank  and  shy,  she  put  out 
her  hand. 

“ I ’m  welcome  indeed,”  said  Searle,  taking  it,  “ if 
he  would  have  done  it  half  as  graciously.” 

“ You  Ve  seen  the  show,”  Miss  Searle  went  on. 
“ Perhaps  now  you  11  have  some  lunch.”  We  fol- 
lowed her  into  a small  breakfast-room,  where  a deep 
bay-window  opened  on  the  mossy  flags  of  the  great 
terrace.  Here,  for  some  moments,  she  remained 
silent  and  shy,  in  the  manner  of  a person  resting 
from  a great  effort.  Searle,  too,  was  formal  and  reti- 
cent, so  that  I had  to  busy  myself  with  providing 
small-talk.  It  was  of  course  easy  to  descant  on  the 
beauties  of  park  and  mansion.  Meanwhile  I observed 
our  hostess.  She  had  small  beauty  and  scanty  grace ; 
her  dress  was  out  of  taste  and  out  of  season;  yet 
she  pleased  me  well.  There  was  about  her  a sturdy 
sweetness,  a homely  flavor  of  the  sequestered  chate- 
laine of  feudal  days.  To  be  so  simple  amid  this  mas- 
sive luxury,  so  mellow  and  yet  so  fresh,  so  modest 
and  yet  so  placid,  told  of  just  the  spacious  leisure  in 
which  I had  fancied  human  life  to  be  steeped  in 
many  a park-circled  home.  Miss  Searle  was  to  the 
Belle  au  Bois  Dormant  what  a fact  is  to  a fairy-tale, 
an  interpretation  to  a myth.  We,  on  our  side,  were 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


55 


to  our  hostess  objects  of  no  light  scrutiny.  The  best 
possible  English  breeding  still  marvels  visibly  at  the 
native  American.  Miss  Searle’s  wonderment  was 
guileless  enough  to  have  been  more  overt  and  yet 
inoffensive;  there  was  no  taint  of  offence  indeed  in 
her  utterance  of  the  unvarying  amenity  that  she  had 
met  an  American  family  on  the  Lake  of  Como  whom 
she  would  have  almost  taken  to  be  English. 

“If  I lived  here/’  I said,  “I  think  I should  hardly 
need  to  go  away,  even  to  the  Lake  of  Como.” 

“You  might  perhaps  get  tired  of  it.  And  then 
the  Lake  of  Como ! If  I could  only  go  abroad 
again ! ” 

“ You  have  been  but  once  ? ” 

“ Only  once.  Three  years  ago  my  brother  took  me 
to  Switzerland.  We  thought  it  extremely  beautiful. 
Except  for  this  journey,  I have  always  lived  here. 
Here  I was  born.  It ’s  a dear  old  place,  indeed,  and  I 
know  it  well.  Sometimes  I fancy  I ’m  a little  tired.” 
And  on  my  asking  her  how  she  spent  her  time  and 
what  society  she  saw,  “ It ’s  extremely  quiet,”  she  went 
on,  proceeding  by  short  steps  and  simple  statements,  in 
the  manner  of  a person  summoned  for  the  first  time  to 
define  her  situation  and  enumerate  the  elements  of  her 
life.  “We  see  very  few  people.  I don’t  think  there 
are  many  nice  people  hereabouts.  At  least  we  don’t 
know  them.  Our  own  family  is  very  small.  My 


56 


A PASSIONATE  PILGPJM. 


brother  cares  for  little  else  but  riding  and  books.  lie 
had  a great  sorrow  ten  years  ago.  He  lost  his  wife  and 
his  only  son,  a dear  little  boy,  who  would  have  suc- 
ceeded him  in  the  estates.  Do  you  know  that  I'm 
likely  to  have  them  now  ? Poor  me ! Since  his  loss 
my  brother  has  preferred  to  be  quite  alone.  I 'm  sorry 
he ’s  away.  But  you  must  wait  till  he  comes  back.  I 
expect  -him  in  a day  or  two.”  She  talked  more  and 
more,  with  a rambling,  earnest  vapidity,  about  her  cir- 
cumstances, her  solitude,  her  bad  eyes,  so  that  she 
could  n't  read,  her  flowers,  her  ferns,  her  dogs,  and  the 
curate,  recently  inducted  by  her  brother  and  warranted 
sound  orthodox,  who  had  lately  begun  to  light  his  altar 
candles ; pausing  every  now  and  then  to  blush  in  self- 
surprise, and  yet  moving  steadily  from  point  to  point 
in  the  deepening  excitement  of  temptation  and  occa- 
sion. Of  all  the  old  things  I had  seen  in  England, 
this  mind  of  Miss  Searle's  seemed  to  me  the  oldest, 
the  quaintest,  the  most  ripely  verdant ; so  fenced  and 
protected  by  convention  and  precedent  and  usage ; so 
passive  and  mild  and  docile.  I felt  as  if  I were  talk- 
ing with  a potential  heroine  of  Miss  Burney.  As  she 
talked,  she  rested  her  dull,  kind  eyes  upon  her  kinsman 
with  a sort  of  fascinated  stare.  At  last,  “ Did  you 
mean  to  go  away,”  she  demanded,  “ without  asking  for 
us?” 

“ I had  thought  it  over,  Miss  Searle,  and  had  deter- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


57 


mined  not  to  trouble  you.  You  have  shown  me  how 
unfriendly  I should  have  been.” 

“ But  you  knew  of  the  place  being  ours  and  of  our 
relationship  ? ” 

“ Just  so.  It  was  because  of  these  things  that  I 
came  down  here,  — because  of  them,  almost,  that  I 
came  to  England.  I have  always  liked  to  think  of 
them.” 

“ You  merely  wished  to  look,  then  ? We  don’t  pre- 
tend to  be  much  to  look  at.” 

“You  don’t  know  what  you  are,  Miss  Searle,”  said 
my  friend,  gravely. 

“ You  like  the  old  place,  then  ? ” 

Searle  looked  at  her  in  silence.  “ If  I could  only 
tell  you,”  he  said  at  last. 

“ Do  tell  me ! You  must  come  and  stay  with  us.” 

Searle  began  to  laugh.  “ Take  care,  take  care,”  he 
cried.  “ I should  surprise  you.  At  least  I should  bore 
you.  I should  never  leave  you.” 

“ 0,  you ’d  get  homesick  for  America ! ” 

At  this  Searle  laughed  the  more.  “ By  the  way,”  he  ' 
cried  to  me,  “ tell  Miss  Searle  about  America ! ” And 
he  stepped  through  the  window  out  upon  the  terrace, 
followed  by  two  beautiful  dogs,  a pointer  and  a young 
stag-hound,  who  from  the  moment  we  came  in  had  es- 
tablished the  fondest  relation  with  him.  Miss  Searle 
looked  at  him  as  he  went,  with  a certain  tender  won- 

3* 


58  A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 

der  in  her  eye.  I read  in  her  glance,  methought,  that 
she  was  interested.  I suddenly  recalled  the  last  words 
I had  heard  spoken  by  my  friend’s  adviser  in  Lon- 
don : “ Instead  of  dying  you ’d  better  marry.”  If  Miss 
Searle  could  be  gently  manipulated.  0 for  a certain 
divine  tact ! Something  assured  me  that  her  heart  was 
virgin  soil;  that  sentiment  had  never  bloomed  there. 
If  I could  but  sow  the  seed ! There  lurked  within  her 
the  perfect  image  of  one  of  the  patient  wives  of  old. 

“ He  has  lost  his  heart  to  England,”  I said.  “ He 
ought  to  have  been  born  here.” 

“ And  yet,”  said  Miss  Searle,  “ he ’s  not  in  the  least 
an  Englishman.” 

“ How  do  you  know  that  ? ” 

“ I hardly  know  how.  I never  talked  with  a for- 
eigner before ; but  he  looks  and  talks  as  I have  fancied 
foreigners.” 

“ Yes,  he ’s  foreign  enough  ! ” 

“ Is  he  married  ? ” 

“ He ’s  a widower,  — without  children.” 

“ Has  he  property  ? ” 

“ Very  little.” 

“ But  enough  to  travel  ? ” 

I meditated.  “ He  has  not  expected  to  travel  far,” 
I said  at  last.  “ You  know  he ’s  in  poor  health.” 

“ Poor  gentleman  ! So  I fancied.” 

“ He ’s  better,  though,  than  he  thinks.  He  came 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


59 


here  because  he  wanted  to  see  your  place  before  he 
dies” 

“ Poor  fellow  ! ” And  I fancied  I perceived  in  her 
eye  the  lustre  of  a rising  tear.  “ And  he  was  going  off 
without  my  seeing  him  ? ” 

“ He ’s  a modest  man,  you  see.” 

“ He ’s  very  much  of  a gentleman.” 

“ Assuredly ! ” 

At  this  moment  we  heard  on  the  terrace  a loud, 
harsh  cry.  “ It ’s  the  great  peacock  ! ” said  Miss  Searle, 
stepping  to  the  window  and  passing  out.  I followed 
her.  Below  us  on  the  terrace,  leaning  on  the  parapet, 
stood  our  friend,  with  his  arm  round  the  neck  of  the 
pointer.  Before  him,  on  the  grand  walk,  strutted  a 
splendid  peacock,  with  ruffled  neck  and  expanded  tail. 
The  other  dog  had  apparently  indulged  in  a momen- 
tary attempt  to  abash  the  gorgeous  fowl ; but  at  Searle’s 
voice  he  had  bounded  back  to  the  terrace  and  leaped 
upon  the  parapet,  where  he  now  stood  licking  his  new 
friend’s  face.  The  scene  had  a beautiful  old-time  air  ; 
the  peacock  flaunting  in  the  foreground,  like  the  very 
genius  of  antique  gardenry ; the  broad  terrace,  which 
flattered  an  innate  taste  of  mine  for  all  deserted  prom- 
enades to  which  people  may  have  adjourned  from  for- 
mal dinners,  to  drink  coffee  in  old  Sevres,  and  where 
the  stiff  brocade  of  women’s  dresses  may  have  rustled 
autumnal  leaves ; and  far  around  us,  with  one  leafy 


60 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


circle  melting  into  another,  the  timbered  acres  of  the 
park.  “ The  very  beasts  have  made  him  welcome,1 ” I 
said,  as  we  rejoined  our  companion. 

“ The  peacock  has  done  for  you,  Mr.  Searle,”  said  his 
cousin,  “ what  he  does  only  for  very  great  people.  A 
year  ago  there  came  here  a duchess  to  see  my  brother. 
I don’t  think  that  since  then  he  has  spread  his  tail  as 
wide  for  any  one  else  by  a dozen  feathers.” 

“ It ’s  not  alone  the  peacock,”  said  Searle.  “ Just 
now  there  came  slipping  across  my  path  a little  green 
lizard,  the  first  I ever  saw,  the  lizard  of  literature ! 
And  if  you  have  a ghost,  broad  daylight  though  it  be, 
I expect  to  see  him  here.  Do  you  know  the  annals  of 
your  house,  Miss  Searle  ? ” 

“ 0 dear,  no ! You  must  ask  my  brother  for  all 
those  things.” 

“ You  ought  to  have  a book  full  of  legends  and  tra- 
ditions. You  ought  to  have  loves  and  murders  and 
mysteries  by  the  roomful.  I count  upon  it.” 

“ 0 Mr.  Searle  ! We  have  always  been  a very  well- 
behaved  family.  Nothing  out  of  the  way  has  ever 
happened,  I think.” 

“ Nothing  out  of  the  way  ? 0 horrors  ! We  have 

done  better  than  that  in  America.  Why,  I myself!  ” — 
and  he  gazed  at  her  a moment  with  a gleam  of  malice, 
and  then  broke  into  a laugh.  “ Suppose  I should  turn 
out  a better  Searle  than  you  ? Better  than  you,  nursed 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


61 


here  in  romance  and  picturesqueness.  Come,  don’t 
disappoint  me.  You  have  some  history  among  you  all, 
you  have  some  poetry.  I have  been  famished  all  my 
days  for  these  things.  Do  you  understand  ?'  Ah,  you 
can’t  understand ! Tell  me  something  ! When  I think 
of  what  must  have  happened  here  ! when  I think  of 
the  lovers  who  must  have  strolled  on  this  terrace  and 
wandered  through  those  glades ! of  all  the  figures  and 
passions  and  purposes  that  must  have  haunted  these 
walls ! of  the  births  and  deaths,  the  joys  and  suffer- 
ings, the  young  hopes  and  the  old  regrets,  the  intense 
experience  — ” And  here  he  faltered  a moment,  with 
the  increase  of  his  vehemence.  The  gleam  in  his  eye, 
which  I have  called  a gleam  of  malice,  had  settled  into 
a deep  unnatural  light.  I began  to  fear  he  had  become 
over-excited.  But  he  went  on  with  redoubled  passion. 
“To  see  it  all  evoked  before  me,”  he  cried,  “if  the 
Devil  alone  could  do  it,  I ’d  make  a bargain  with  the 
Devil ! 0 Miss  Searle,  I’ma  most  unhappy  man  ! ” 

“ 0 dear,  0 dear  ! ” said  Miss  Searle. 

“ Look  at  that  window,  that  blessed  oriel ! ” And 
he  pointed  to  a small,  protruding  casement  above  us, 
relieved  against  the  purple  brick- work,  framed  in  chis- 
elled stone,  and  curtained  with  ivy. 

“ It ’s  my  room,”  said  Miss  Searle. 

“ Of  course  it ’s  a woman’s  room.  Think  of  the  for- 
gotten loveliness  which  has  peeped  from  that  window ; 


62 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


think  of  the  old-time  women’s  li^es  which  have  known 
chiefly  that  outlook  on  this  bosky  world.  0 gentle 
cousins ! And  you,  Miss  Searle,  you  he  one  of  them 
yet.”  And  he  marched  towards  her  and  took  her 
great  white  hand.  She  surrendered  it,  blushing  to  her 
eyes,  and  pressing  her  other  hand  to  her  breast. 
“ You  he  a woman  of  the  past.  You  he  nobly  simple. 
It  has  been  a romance  to  see  you.  It  does  nh  matter 
what  I say  to  you.  You  did  n’t  know  me  yesterday, 
you’ll  not  know  me  to-morrow.  Let  me  to-day  do 
a mad,  sweet  thing.  Let  me  fancy  you  the  soul  of 
all  the  dead  women  who  have  trod  these  terrace-flags, 
which  lie  here  like  sepulchral  tablets  in  the  pavement 
of  a church.  Let  me  say  I worship  you ! ” And  he 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  She  gently  withdrew  it, 
and  for  a moment  averted  her  face.  Meeting  her 
eyes  the  next  moment,  I saw  that  they  were  filled 
with  tears.  The  Belle  au  Bois  Dormant  was  awake. 

There  followed  an  embarrassed  pause.  An  issue 
was  suddenly  presented  by  the  appearance  of  the  but- 
ler bearing  a letter.  “ A telegram,  Miss,”  he  said. 

“ Dear  me  ! ” cried  Miss  Searle,  “ I can’t  open  a tele- 
gram. Cousin,  help  me.” 

Searle  took  the  missive,  opened  it,  and  read  aloud : 
“ I shall  be  home  to  dinner . Keep  the  American .” 


II. 


EEP  the  American ! ” Miss  Searle,  in  com- 


pliance  with  the  injunction  conveyed  in  her 
brother’s  telegram  (with  something  certainly  of  tele- 
graphic curtness),  lost  no  time  in  expressing  the  pleas- 
ure it  would  give  her  to  have  my  companion  remain. 
“ Really  you  must/’  she  said;  and  forthwith  repaired 
to  the  housekeeper,  to  give  orders  for  the  preparation 
of  a room. 

“ How  in  the  world,”  asked  Searle,  “ did  he  know  of 
my  being  here  ? ” 

“He  learned,  probably,”  I expounded,  “from  his 
solicitor  of  the  visit  of  your  friend  Simmons.  Sim- 
mons and  the  solicitor  must  have  had  another  inter- 
view since  your  arrival  in  England.  Simmons,  for 
reasons  of  his  own,  has  communicated  to  the  solicitor 
your  journey  to  this  neighborhood,  and  Mr.  Searle, 
learning  this,  has  immediately  taken  for  granted  that 
you  have  formally  presented  yourself  to  his  sister. 
He ’s  hospitably  inclined,  and  he  wishes  her  to  do  the 
proper  thing  by  you.  More,  perhaps  ! I have  my  little 
theory  that  he  is  the  very  Phoenix  of  usurpers,  that 


64 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


his  nobler  sense  has  been  captivated  by  the  exposition 
of  the  men  of  law,  and  that  he  means  gracefully  to 
surrender  you  your  fractional  interest  in  the  estate.” 

“I  give  it  up!”  said  my  friend,  musing.  “Come 
what  come  will ! ” 

“You  of  course,”  said  Miss  Searle,  reappearing  and 
turning  to  me,  “ are  included  in  my  brother’s  invita- 
tion. I have  bespoken  your  lodging  as  well.  Your 
luggage  shall  immediately  be  sent  for  ” 

It  was  arranged  that  I in  person  should  be  driven 
over  to  our  little  inn,  and  that  I should  return  with 
our  effects  in  time  to  meet  Mr.  Searle  at  dinner.  On 
my  arrival,  several  hours  later,  I was  immediately  con- 
ducted .to  my  room.  The  servant  pointed  out  to  me 
that  it  communicated  by  a door  and  a private  passage 
with  that  of  my  companion.  I made  my  way  along 
this  passage,  — a low,  narrow  corridor,  with  a long 
latticed  casement,  through  which  there  streamed,  upon 
a series  of  grotesquely  sculptured  oaken  closets  and 
cupboards,  the  lurid  animating  glow  of  the  western 
sun,  — knocked  at  his  door,  and,  getting  no  answer, 
opened  it.  In  an  arm-chair  by  the  open  window  sat 
my  friend,  sleeping,  with  arms  and  legs  relaxed  and 
head  placidly  reverted.  It  was  a great  relief  to  find 
him  resting  from  his  rhapsodies,  and  I watched  him 
for  some  moments  before  waking  him.  There  was  a 
faint  glow  of  color  in  his  cheek  and  a light  parting  of 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


65 


his  lips,  as  in  a smile;  something  nearer  to  mental 
soundness  than  I had  yet  seen  in  him.  It  was  almost 
happiness,  it  was  almost  health.  I laid  my  hand  on 
his  arm  and  gently  shook  it.  He  opened  his  eyes, 
gazed  at  me  a moment,  vaguely  recognized  me,  then 
closed  them  again.  “Let  me  dream,  let  me  dream!” 
he  said. 

“ What  are  you  dreaming  about  ? ” 

A moment  passed  before  his  answer  came.  “ About 
a tall  woman  in  a quaint  black  dress,  with  yellow  hair, 
and  a sweet,  sweet  smile,  and  a soft,  low,  delicious 
voice  ! I’m  in  love  with  her.” 

“ It  ’s  better  to  see  her,”  I said,  “ than  to  dream 
about  her.  Get  up  and  dress,  and  we  shall  go  down 
to  dinner  and  meet  her” 

“ Dinner  — dinner  — ” And  he  gradually  opened  his 
eyes  again.  “Yes,  upon  my  word,  I shall  dine  ! ” 

“You  ’re  a well  man !”  I said,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 
“You’ll  live  to  bury  Mr.  Simmons.”  He  had  spent 
the  hours  of  my  absence,  he  told  me,  with  Miss  Searle. 
They  had  strolled  together  over  the  park  and  through 
the  gardens  and  green-houses.  “ You  must  already  be 
intimate  ! ” I said,  smiling. 

“ She  is  intimate  with  me,”  he  answered.  “ Heaven 
knows  what  rigmarole  I ’ve  treated  her  to ! ” They 
had  parted  an  hour  ago,  since  when,  he  believed,  her 
brother  had  arrived. 


66 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


The  slow-fading  twilight  still  abode  in  the  great 
drawing-room  as  we  entered  it.  The  housekeeper  had 
told  us  that  this  apartment  was  rarely  used,  there 
being  a smaller  and  more  convenient  one  for  the  same 
needs.  It  seemed  now,  however,  to  be  occupied  in 
my  comrade’s  honor.  At  the  farther  end  of  it,  rising 
to  the  roof,  like  a ducal  tomb  in  a cathedral,  was  a 
great  chimney-piece  of  chiselled  white  marble,  yel- 
lowed by  time,  in  which  a light  fire  was  crackling. 
Before  the  fire  stood  a small  short  man  with  his  hands 
behind  him;  near  him  stood  Miss  Searle,  so  trans- 
formed by  her  dress  that  at  first  I scarcely  knew  her. 
There  was  in  our  entrance  and  reception  something 
profoundly  chilling  and  solemn.  We  moved  in  silence 
up  the  long  room.  Mr.  Searle  advanced  slowly  a 
dozen  steps  to  meet  us.  His  sister  stood  motionless. 
I was  conscious  of  her  masking  her  visage  with  a 
large  white  tinselled  fan,  and  of  her  eyes,  grave  and 
expanded,  watching  us  intently  over  the  top  of  it. 
The  master  of  Lockley  Park  grasped  in  silence  the 
proffered  hand  of  his  kinsman,  and  eyed  him  from 
head  to  foot,  suppressing,  I think,  a start  of  surprise 
at  his  resemblance  to  Sir  Joshua’s  portrait.  "This  is 
a happy  day ! ” he  said.  And  then  turning  to  me 
with  a bow,  “ My  cousin’s  friend  is  my  friend.”  Miss 
Searle  lowered  her  fan. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  me  in  Mr.  Searle’s  ap- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


67 


pearance  was  his  short  and  meagre  stature,  which  was 
less  by  half  a head  than  that  of  his  sister.  The  second 
was  the  preternatural  redness  of  his  hair  and  beard. 
They  intermingled  over  his  ears  and  surrounded  his 
head  like  a huge  lurid  nimbus.  His  face  was  pale 
and  attenuated,  like  the  face  of  a scholar,  a dilettante, 
a man  who  lives  in  a library,  bending  over  books  and 
prints  and  medals.  At  a distance  it  had  an  oddly 
innocent  and  youthful  look;  but  on  a nearer  view  it 
revealed  a number  of  finely  etched  and  scratched 
wrinkles,  of  a singularly  aged  and  cunning  effect.  It 
was  the  complexion  of  a man  of  sixty.  His  nose  was 
arched  and  delicate,  identical  almost  with  the  nose 
of  my  friend.  In  harmony  with  the  effect  of  his  hair 
was  that  of  his  eyes,  which  were  large  and  deep-set, 
with  a sort  of  vulpine  keenness  and  redness,  but  full 
of  temper  and  spirit.  Imagine  this  physiognomy  — 
grave  and  solemn  in  aspect,  grotesquely  solemn,  al- 
most, in  spite  of  the  bushy  brightness  in  which  it  was 
encased  — set  in  motion  by  a smile  which  seemed  to 
whisper  terribly,  “ I am  the  smile,  the  sole  and  official, 
the  grin  to  command,”  and  you  will  have  an  imperfect 
notion  of  the  remarkable  presence  of  our  host;  some- 
thing better  worth  seeing  and  knowing,  I fancied  as  I 
covertly  scrutinized  him,  than  anything  our  excursion 
had  yet  introduced  us  to.  Of  how  thoroughly  I had 
entered  into  sympathy  with  my  companion  and  how 


68 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


effectually  I had  associated  my  sensibilities  with  his, 
I had  small  suspicion  until,  within  the  short  five  min- 
utes which  preceded  the  announcement  of  dinner,  I 
distinctly  perceived  him  place  himself,  morally  speak- 
ing, on  the  defensive.  To  neither  of  us  was  Mr.  Searle, 
as  the  Italians  would  say,  sympathetic.  I might  have 
fancied  from  her  attitude  that  Miss  Searle  apprehended 
our  thoughts.  A signal  change  had  been  wrought  in 
her  since  the  morning;  during  the  hour,  indeed  (as  I 
read  in  the  light  of  the  wondering  glance  he  cast  at 
her),  that  had  elapsed  since  her  parting  with  her 
cousin.  She  had  not  yet  recovered  from  some  great 
agitation.  Her  face  was  pale  and  her  eyes  red  with 
weeping.  These  tragic  betrayals  gave  an  unexpected 
dignity  to  her  aspect,  which  was  further  enhanced  by 
the,  rare  picturesqueness  of  her  dress. 

Whether  it  was  taste  or  whether  it  was  accident, 
I know  not;  but  Miss  Searle,  as  she  stood  there, 
half  in  the  cool  twilight,  half  in  the  arrested  glow 
of  the  fire  as  it  spent  itself  in  the  vastness  of  its 
marble  cave,  was  a figure  for  a cunning  painter. 
She  was  dressed  in  the  faded  splendor  of  a beauti- 
ful tissue  of  combined  and  blended  silk  and  crape 
of  a tender  sea-green  color,  festooned  and  garnished 
and  puffed  into  a massive  louillonnement ; a piece 
of  millinery  which,  though  it  must  have  witnessed 
a number  of  stately  dinners,  preserved  still  an 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


69 


air  of  admirable  elegance.  Over  her  white  shoulders 
she  wore  an  ancient  web  of  the  most  precious  and 
venerable  lace,  and  about  her  rounded  throat  a neck- 
lace of  heavy  pearls.  I went  with  her  in  to  dinner, 
and  Mr.  Searle,  following  with  my  friend,  took  his 
arm  (as  the  latter  afterwards  told  me)  and  pretended 
sportively  to  conduct  him.  As  dinner  proceeded,  the 
feeling  grew  within  me  that  a drama  had  begun  to 
be  played  in  which  the  three  persons  before  me  were 
actors,  each  of  a most  exacting  part.  The  part  of  my 
friend,  however,  seemed  the  most  heavily  charged,  and 
I was  filled  with  a strong  desire  that  he  should  ac- 


quit himself  with  honor.  I seemed  to  see  him  sum- 
mon his  shadowy  faculties  to  obey  his  shadowy  will. 
The  poor  fellow  sat  playing  solemnly  at  self-esteem. 
With  Miss  Searle,  credulous,  passive,  and  pitying,  he 
had  finally  flung  aside  all  vanity  and  propriety,  and 
shown  her  the  .bottom  of  his  fantastic  heart.  But  with 
our  host  there  might  be  no  talking  of  nonsense  nor 
taking  of  liberties ; there  and  then,  if  ever,  sat  a 
double-distilled  conservative,  breathing  the  fumes  of  * 
hereditary  privilege  and  security.  For  an  hour,  then, 

I saw  my  poor  friend  turn  faithfully  about  to  speak 
graciously  of  barren  things.  He  was  to  prove  him- 
self a sound  American,  so  that  his  relish  of  this  / 
elder  world  might  seem  purely  disinterested.  What 
his  kinsman  had  expected  to  find  him,  I know  not; 


70 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


but,  with  all  his  finely  adjusted  urbanity,  he  was 
unable  to  repress  a shade  of  annoyance  at  finding 
him  likely  to  speak  graciously  at  all.  Mr.  Searle 
was  not  the  man  to  show  his  hand,  but  I think  his 
best  card  had  been  a certain  implicit  confidence  that 
this  exotic  parasite  would  hardly  have  good  manners. 
Our  host,  with  great  decency,  led  the  conversation 
to  America,  talking  of  it  rather  as  if  it  were  some 
fabled  planet,  alien  to  the  British  orbit,  lately  pro- 
claimed indeed  to  have  the  proportion  of  atmos- 
pheric gases  required  to  support  animal  life,  but  not, 
save  under  cover  of  a liberal  afterthought,  to  be 
admitted  into  one’s  regular  conception  of  things. 
I,  for  my  part,  felt  nothing  but  regret  that  the 
spheric  smoothness  of  his  universe  should  be  strained 
to  cracking  by  the  intrusion  of  our  square  shoulders. 

“ I knew  in  a general  way,”  said  Mr.  Searle,  “ of 
my  having  relations  in  America;  but  you  know  one 
hardly  realizes  those  things.  I could  hardly  more 
have  imagined  people  of  our  blood  there,  than  I 
could  have  imagined  being  there  myself.  There 
was  a man  I knew  at  college,  a very  odd  fellow,  a 
nice  fellow  too ; he  and  I were  rather  cronies ; I 
think  he  afterwards  went  to  America;  to  the  Argen- 
tine Republic,  I believe.  Do  you  know  the  Argen- 
tine Republic  ? What  an  extraordinary  name,  by 
the  way ! And  then,  you  know,  there  was  that 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


71 


great-uncle  of  mine  whom  Sir  Joshua  painted.  He 
went  to  America,  but  he  never  got  there.  He  was 
lost  at  sea.  You  look  enough  like  him  to  have  one 
fancy  he  did  get  there,  and  that  he  has  lived  along 
till  now.  If  you  are  he,  you’ve  not  done  a wise 
thing  to  show  yourself  here.  He  left  a bad  name 
behind  him.  There’s  a ghost  who  comes  sobbing 
about  the  house  every  now  and  then,  the  ghost  of 
one  against  whom  he  wrought  a great  evil ! ” 

“ 0 brother ! ” cried  Miss  Searle,  in  simple  horror. 

“ Of  course  you  know  nothing  of  such  things,” 
said  Mr.  Searle.  “ You  ’re  too  sound  a sleeper  to 
hear  the  sobbing  of  ghosts.” 

“ I ’m  sure  I should  like  immensely  to  hear  the 
sobbing  of  a ghost ! ” said  my  friend,  with  the  light 
of  his  previous  eagerness  playing  up  into  his  eyes. 
“ Why  does  it  sob  ? Unfold  the  wondrous  tale.” 

Mr.  Searle  eyed  his  audience  for  a moment  gaug- 
ingly ; and  then,  as  the  French  say,  se  receuillit , as  if 
he  were  measuring  his  own  imaginative  force. 

He  wished  to  do  justice  to  his  theme.  With  the 
five  finger-nails  of  his  left  hand  nervously  playing 
against  the  tinkling  crystal  of  his  wineglass,  and  his 
bright  eye  telling  of  a gleeful  sense  that,  small  and 
grotesque  as  he  sat  there,  he  was  for  the  moment 
profoundly  impressive,  he  distilled  into  our  untutored 
minds  the  sombre  legend  of  his  house.  “ Mr.  Clement 


72 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


Searle,  from  all  I gather,  was  a young  man  of  great 
talents  but  a weak  disposition.  His  mother  was  left 
a widow  early  in  life,  with  two  sons,  of  whom  he  was 
the  older  and  the  more  promising.  She  educated  him 
with  the  utmost  fondness  and  care.  Of  course,  when 
he  came  to  manhood  she  wished  him  to  marry  well. 
His  means  were  quite  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  over- 
look the  want  of  means  in  his  wife ; and  Mrs.  Searle 
selected  a young  lady  who  possessed,  as  she  conceived, 
every  good  gift  save  a fortune,  — a fine,  proud,  hand- 
some girl,  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend,  — an  old 
lover,  I fancy,  of  her  own.  Clement,  however,  as  it 
appeared,  had  either  chosen  otherwise  or  was  as  yet 
unprepared  to  choose.  The  young  lady  discharged  upon 
him  in  vain  the  battery  of  her  attractions;  in  vain 
his  mother  urged  her  cause.  Clement  remained  cold, 
insensible,  inflexible.  Mrs.  Searle  possessed  a native 
force  of  which  in  its  feminine  branch  the  family  seems 
to  have  lost  the  trick.  A proud,  passionate,  imperious 
woman,  she  had  had  great  cares  and  a number  of  law- 
suits ; they  had  given  her  a great  will.  She  suspected 
that  her  son's  affections  were  lodged  elsewhere,  and 
lodged  amiss.  Irritated  by  his  stubborn  defiance  of 
her  wishes,  she  persisted  in  her  urgency.  The  more 
she  watched  him  the  more  she  believed  that  he  loved 
in  secret.  If  he  loved  in  secret,  of  course  he  loved 
beneath  him.  He  went  about  sombre,  sullen,  and 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


73 


preoccupied.  At  last,  with  the  fatal  indiscretion  of  an 
angry  woman,  she  threatened  to  bring  the  young  lady 
of  her  choice  — who,  by  the  way,  seems  to  have  been 
no  shrinking  blossom  — to  stay  in  the  house.  A 
stormy  scene  was  the  result.  He  threatened  that  if 
she  did  so,  he  would  leave  the  country  and  sail  for 
America.  She  probably  disbelieved  him;  she  knew 
him  to  be  weak,  but  she  overrated  his  weakness.  At 
all  events,  the  fair  rejected  arrived  and  Clement  de- 
parted. On  a dark  December  day  he  took  ship  at 
Southampton.  The  two  women,  desperate  with  rage 
and  sorrow,  sat  alone  in  this  great  house,  mingling 
their  tears  and  imprecations.  A fortnight  later,  on 
Christmas  eve,  in  the  midst  of  a great  snow-storm, 
long  famous  in  the  country,  there  came  to  them  a 
mighty  quickening  of  their  bitterness.  A young  wo- 
man, soaked  and  chiiled  by  the  storm,  gained  entrance 
to  the  house  and  made  her  way  into  the  presence  of 
the  mistress  and  her  guest.  She  poured  out  her  tale. 
She  was  a poor  curate’s  daughter  of  Hereford.  Clem- 
ent Searle  had  loved  her ; loved  her  all  too  well.  She 
had  been  turned  out  in  wrath  from  her  father’s  house ; 
his  mother,  at  least,  might  pity  her ; if  not  for  herself, 
then  for  the  child  she  was  soon  to  bring  forth.  The 
poor  girl  had  been  a second  time  too  trustful.  The 
women,  in  scorn,  in  horror,  with  blows,  possibly,  turned 
her  forth  again  into  the  storm.  In  the  storm  she 


4 


74 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


wandered,  and  in  the  deep  snow  she  died.  Her  lover, 
as  you  know,  perished  in  that  hard  winter  weather  at 
sea;  the  news  came  to  his  mother  late,  but  soon 
enough.  We  are  haunted  by  the  curate’s  daughter ! ” 

There  was  a pause  of  some  moments.  “ Ah,  well 
we  may  be ! ” said  Miss  Searle,  with  a great  pity. 

Searle  blazed  up  into  enthusiasm.  “ Of  course  you 
know,”  — and  suddenly  he  began  to  blush  violently,  — 
“I  should  be  sorry  to  claim  any  identity  with  my 
faithless  namesake,  poor  fellow.  But  I shall  be  hugely 
tickled  if  this  poor  ghost  should  be  deceived  by  my 
resemblance  and  mistake  me  for  her  cruel  lover. 
She ’s  welcome  to  the  comfort  of  it.  What  one  can  do 
in  the  case  I shall  be  glad  to  do.  But  can  a ghost 
haunt  a ghost  ? I am  a ghost ! ” 

Mr.  Searle  stared  a moment,  and  then  smiling 
superbly : “ I could  almost  believe  you  are ! ” he 
said. 

“ 0 brother  — cousin ! ” cried  Miss  Searle,  with  the 
gentlest,  yet  most  appealing  dignity,  “how  can  you 
talk  so  horribly  ? ” 

This  horrible  talk,  however,  evidently  possessed  a 
potent  magic  for  my  friend ; and  his  imagination, 
chilled  for  a while  by  the  frigid  contact  of  his  kins- 
man, began  to  glow  again  with  its  earlier  fire.  From 
this  moment  he  ceased  to  steer  his  cockle-shell,  to 
care  what  he  said  or  how  he  said  it,  so  long  as  he 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


75 


expressed  his  passionate  satisfaction  in  the  scene 
about  him.  As  he  talked  I ceased  even  mentally 
to  protest.  I have  wondered  since  that  I should 
not  have  resented  the  exhibition  of  so  rank  and 
florid  an  egotism.  But  a great  frankness  for  the 
time  makes  its  own  law,  and  a great  passion  its 
own  channel.  There  was,  moreover,  an  immense 
sweetness  in  the  manner  of  my  friend’s  speech. 
Free  alike  from  either  adulation  or  envy,  the  very 
soul  of  it  was  a divine  apprehension,  an  imagina- 
tive mastery,  free  as  the  flight  of  Ariel,  of  the 
poetry  of  his  companions’  situation  and  of  the  con- 
trasted prosiness  of  their  attitude. 

“ How  does  the  look  of  age  come  ? ” he  demanded, 
at  dessert.  “Does  it  come  of  itself,  unobserved,  un- 
recorded, unmeasured  ? Or  do  you  woo  it  and  set 
baits  and  traps  for  it,  and  watch  it  like  the  dawn- 
ing brownness  of  a meerschaum  pipe,  and  nail  it 
down  when  it  appears,  just  where  it  peeps  out,  and 
light  a votive  taper  beneath  it  and  give  thanks  to 
it  daily  ? Or  do  you  forbid  it  and  fight  it  and 
resist  it,  and  yet  feel  it  settling  and  deepening  about 
you,  as  irresistible  as  fate  ? ” 

“ What  the  deuce  is  the  man  talking  about  ? ” 
said  the  smile  of  our  host. 

“ I found  a gray  hair  this  morning,”  said  Miss 
Searle. 


76 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


“ Good  heavens ! I hope  you  respected  it,”  cried 
Searle. 

“ I looked  at  it  for  a long  time  in  my  little 
glass,”  said  his  cousin,  simply. 

“ Miss  Searle,  for  many  years  to  come,  can  afford 
to  be  amused  at  gray  hairs,”  I said. 

“Ten  years  hence  I shall  be  forty-three,”  she  an- 
swered. 

“ That ’s  my  age,”  said  Searle.  “ If  I had  only 
come  here  ten  years  ago ! I should  have  had  more 
time  to  enjoy  the  feast,  but  I should  have  had  less 
of  an  appetite.  I needed  to  get  famished  for  it.” 

“ Why  did  you  wait  for  the  starving  point  ? ” asked 
Mr.  Searle.  “ To  think  of  these  ten  years  that  we 
might  have  been  enjoying  you  ! ” And  at  the  thought 
of  these  wasted  ten  years  Mr.  Searle  broke  into  a vio- 
lent nervous  laugh. 

“ I always  had  a notion,  — a stupid,  vulgar  no- 
tion, if  there  ever  was  one,  — that  to  come  abroad 
properly  one  ought  to  have  a pot  of  money.  My 
pot  was  too  nearly  empty.  At  last  I came  with 
my  empty  pot ! ” 

Mr.  Searle  coughed  with  an  air  of  hesitation. 
“ You  ’re  a — you  ’re  in  limited  circumstances  ? ” 

My  friend  apparently  was  vastly  tickled  to  have 
his  bleak  situation  called  by  so  soft  a name.  “ Lim- 
ited circumstances ! ” he  cried  with  a long,  light 
laugh  ; “I’m  in  no  circumstances  at  all ! ” 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


77 


“ Upon  my  word ! ” murmured  Mr.  Searle,  with 
an  air  of  being  divided  between  his  sense  of  the 
indecency  and  his  sense  of  the  rarity  of  a gentle- 
man taking  just  that  tone  about  his  affairs.  “Well 
— well  — well!”  he  added,  in  a voice  which  might 
have  meant  everything  or  nothing ; and  proceeded, 
with  a twinkle  in  his  eye,  to  finish  a glass  of  wine. 
His  sparkling  eye,  as  he  drank,  encountered  mine 
over  the  top  of  his  glass,  and,  for  a moment,  we 
exchanged  a long  deep  glance,  — a glance  so  keen 
as  to  leave  a slight\  embarrassment  on  the  face  of 
each.  “And  you,”  said  Mr.  Searle,  by  way  of  carry- 
ing it  off,  “how  about  your  circumstances?” 

“ 0,  his,”  said  my  friend,  “ his  are  unlimited ! He 
could  buy  up  Lockley  Park ! ” He  had  drunk,  I 
think,  a rather  greater  number  of  glasses  of  port  — 
I admit  that  the  port  was  infinitely  drinkable  — 
than  was  to  have  been  desired  in  the  interest  of  per- 
fect self-control.  He  was  rapidly  drifting  beyond 
any  tacit  dissuasion  of  mine.  A certain  feverish 
harshness  in  his  glance  and  voice  warned  me  that 
to  attempt  to  direct  him  would  simply  irritate  him. 
As  we  rose  from  the  table  he  caught  my  troubled 
look.  Passing  his  arm  for  a moment  into  mine, 
“ This  is  the  great  night ! ” he  whispered.  “ The  night 
of  fatality,  the  night  of  destiny ! ” 

Mr.  Searle  had  caused  the  whole  lower  region  of 


78 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


the  house  to  he  thrown  open  and  a multitude  of  lights 
to  be  placed  in  convenient  and  effective  positions. 
Such  a marshalled  wealth  of  ancient  candlesticks  and 
flambeaux  I had  never  beheld.  Niched  against  the 
dark  panellings,  casting  great  luminous  circles  upon 
the  pendent  stiffness  of  sombre  tapestries,  enhancing 
and  completing  with  admirable  effect  the  vastness 
and  mystery  of  the  ancient  house,  they  seemed  to 
people  the  great  rooms,  as  our  little  group  passed 
slowly  from  one  to  another,  with  a dim,  expectant 
presence.  We  had  a delightful  hour  of  it.  Mr.  Searle 
at  once  assumed  the  part  of  cicerone,  and  — I had 
not  hitherto  done  him  justice — Mr.  Searle  became 
agreeable.  While  I lingered  behind  with  Miss  Searle, 
he  walked  in  advance  with  his  kinsman.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  said,  "Well,  if  you  want  the  old  place, 
you  shall  have  it — metaphysically!”  To  speak  vul- 
garly, he  rubbed  it  in.  Carrying  a great  silver  can- 
dlestick in  his  left  hand,  he  raised  it  and  lowered  it 
and  cast  the  light  hither  and  thither,  upon  pictures 
and  hangings  and  bits  of  carving  and  a hundred 
lurking  architectural  treasures.  Mr.  Searle  knew  his 
house.  He  hinted  at  innumerable  traditions  and 
memories,  and  evoked  with  a very  pretty  wit  the 
figures  of  its  earlier  occupants.  He  told  a dozen 
anecdotes  with  an  almost  reverential  gravity  and  neat- 
ness. His  companion  attended,  with  a sort  of  brood- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


79 


ing  intelligence.  Miss  Searle  and  I,  meanwhile,  were 
not  wholly  silent. 

“I  suppose  that  by  this  time,”  I said,  “you  and 
your  cousin  are  almost  old  friends.” 

She  trifled  a moment  with  her  fan,  and  then  raising 
her  homely  candid  gaze  : “ Old  friends,  and  at  the 
same  time  strangely  new  ! My  cousin,  — my  cousin,” 
— and  her  voice  lingered  on  the  word,  — “it  seems 
so  strange  to  call  him  my  cousin,  after  thinking 
these  many  years  that  I had  no  cousin ! He ’s  a 
most  singular  man.” 

“ It ’s  not  so  much  he  as  his  circumstances  that 
are  singular,”  I ventured  to  say. 

“ I ’m  so  sorry  for  his  circumstances.  I wish  I 
could  help  him  in  some  way.  He  interests  me  so 
much.”  And  here  Miss  Searle  gave  a rich,  mellow 
sigh.  “ I wish  I had  known  him  a long  time  ago.  He 
told  me  that  he  is  but  the  shadow  of  what  he  was.” 

I wondered  whether  Searle  had  been  consciously 
playing  upon  the  fancy  of  this  gentle  creature.  If 
he  had,  I believed  he  had  gained  his  point.  But  in 
fact,  his  position  had  become  to  my  sense  so  charged 
with  opposing  forces,  that  I hardly  ventured  wholly 
to  rejoice.  “ His  better  self  just  now,”  I said,  “ seems 
again  to  be  taking  shape.  It  will  have  been  a good 
deed  on  your  part„  Miss  Searle,  if  you  help  to  restore 
him  to  soundness  and  serenity.” 


80 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


“ Ah,  what  can  I do  ? ” 

“ Be  a friend  to  him.  Let  him  like  you,  let  him 
love  you ! You  see  in  him  now,  doubtless,  much  to 
pity  and  to  wonder  at.  But  let  him  simply  enjoy 
awhile  the  grateful  sense  of  your  nearness  and  dear- 
ness. He  will  be  a better  and  stronger  man  for  it, 
and  then  you  can  love  him,  you  can  respect  him 
without  restriction.” 

Miss  Searle  listened  with  a puzzled  tenderness  of 
gaze.  “ It ’s  a hard  part  for  poor  me  to  play  ! ” 

Her  almost  infantine  gentleness  left  me  no  choice 
but  to  be  absolutely  frank.  “ Did  you  ever  play  any 
part  at  all  ? ” I asked. 

Her  eyes  met  mine,  wonderingly;  she  blushed,  as 
with  a sudden  sense  of  my  meaning.  “ Never ! I 
^hink  I have  hardly  lived.” 

“ You  Ve  begun  now,  perhaps.  You  have  begun  to 
care  for  something  outside  the  narrow  circle  of  habit 
and  duty.  (Excuse  me  if  I am  rather  too  outspoken : 
you  know  I ’m  a foreigner.)  It ’s  a great  moment : 
I wish  you  joy !” 

“I  could  almost  fancy  you  are  laughing  at  me. 
I feel  more  trouble  than  joy.” 

“ Why  do  you  feel  trouble  ? ” 

She  paused,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  our  two  com- 
panions. “My  cousin’s  arrival,”  she  said  at  last,  “is 
a great  disturbance.” 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


81 


“You  mean  that  you  did  wrong  in  recognizing 
liim  ? In  that  case  the  fault  is  mine.  He  had  no 
intention  of  giving  you  the  opportunity.” 

“ I did  wrong,  after  a fashion ! But  I can’t  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  regret  it.  I never  shall  regret  it ! 
I did  what  I thought  proper.  Heaven  forgive  me ! ” 

“ Heaven  bless  you,  Miss  Searle ! Is  any  harm  to 
come  of  it  ? I did  the  evil ; let  me  bear  the  brunt ! ” 

She  shook  her  head  gravely.  “You  don’t  know 
my  brother!” 

“ The  sooner  I do  know  him,  then,  the  better ! ” 
And  hereupon  I felt  a dull  irritation  which  had  been 
gathering  force  for  more  than  hour  explode  into  sud- 
den wrath.  “ What  on  earth  is  your  brother  ? ” I 
demanded.  She  turned  away.  “Are  you  afraid  of 
him?”  I asked. 

She  gave  me  a tearful  sidelong  glance.  “He’s 
looking  at  me  ! ” she  murmured. 

I looked  at  him.  He  was  standing  with  his  back 
to  us,  holding  a large  Venetian  hand-mirror,  framed 
in  rococo  silver,  which  he  had  taken  from  a shelf  of 
antiquities,  in  just  such  a position  that  he  caught 
the  reflection  of  his  sister’s  person.  Shall  I confess 
it  ? Something  in  this  performance  so  tickled  my 
sense  of  the  picturesque,  that  it  was  with  a sort  of 
blunted  anger  that  I muttered,  “ The  sneak  ! ” Yet 
I felt  passion  enough  to  urge  me  forward.  It  seemed 

4* 


F 


82 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


to  me  that  by  implication  I,  too,  was  being  covertly 
watched.  I should  not  be  watched  for  nothing ! 
“ Miss  Searle,”  I said,  insisting  upon  her  attention, 
“ promise  me  something.” 

She  turned  upon  me  with  a start  and  the  glance 
of  one  appealing  from  some  great  pain.  “ 0,  don’t 
ask  me ! ” she  cried.  It  was  as  if  she  were  standing 
on  the  verge  of  some  sudden  lapse  of  familiar  ground 
and  had  been  summoned  to  make  a leap.  I felt 
that  retreat  was  impossible,  and  that  it  was  the  greater 
kindness  to  beckon  her  forward. 

“ Promise  me,”  I repeated. 

Still  with  her  eyes  she  protested.  “ 0,  dreadful 
day ! ” she  cried,  at  last. 

“ Promise  me  to  let  him  speak  to  you,  if  he  should 
ask  you,  any  wish  you  may  suspect  on  your  brother’s 
part  notwithstanding.” 

She  colored  deeply.  “You  mean,”  she  said, — “you 
mean  that  he  — has  something  particular  to  say.” 

“Something  most  particular!” 

“ Poor  cousin  ! ” 

I gave  her  a deeply  questioning  look.  “ Well, 
poor  cousin!  But  promise  me.” 

“ I promise,”  she  said,  and  moved  away  across  the 
long  room  and  out  of  the  door. 

“ You  ’re  in  time  to  hear  the  most  delightful 
story ! ” said  my  friend,  as  I rejoined  the  two  gentle- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


83 


men.  They  were  standing  before  an  old  sombre  por- 
trait of  a lady  in  the  dress  of  Queen  Anne's  time, 
with  her  ill-painted  flesh-tints  showing  livid  in  the 
candlelight  against  her  dark  drapery  and  background. 
“ This  is  Mistress  Margaret  Searle,  — a sort  of  Beatrix 
Esmond,  — who  did  as  she  pleased.  She  married  a 
paltry  Frenchman,  a penniless  fiddler,  in  the  teeth 
of  her  whole  family.  Fair  Margaret,  my  compliments  ! 
Upon  my  soul,  she  looks  like  Miss  Searle!  Pray 
go  on.  What  came  of  it  all  ? ” 

Mr.  Searle  looked  at  his  kinsman  for  a moment  with 
an  air  of  distaste  for  his  boisterous  homage,  and  of  pity 
for  his  crude  imagination.  Then  resuming,  with  a 
very  effective  dryness  of  tone : “ I found  a year  ago,  in 
a box  of  very  old  papers,  a letter  from  Mistress  Mar- 
garet to  Cynthia  Searle,  her  elder  sister.  It  was  dated 
from  Paris  and  dreadfully  ill-spelled.  It  contained  a 
most  passionate  appeal  for  — a — for  pecuniary  assist- 
ance. She  had  just  been  confined,  she  was  starving, 
and  neglected  by  her  husband ; she  cursed  the  day  she 
left  England.  It  was  a most  dismal  effusion.  I never 
heard  that  she  found  means  to  return.” 

“ So  much  for  marrying  a Frenchman ! ” I said,  sen- 
tentiously. 

Mr.  Searle  was  silent  for  some  moments.  “ This  was 
the  first,”  he  said,  finally,  “and  the  last  of  the  family 


84 


A PASSIONATE  TILGRIM. 


“Does  Miss  Searle  know  her  history ?”  asked  my 
friend,  staring  at  the  rounded  whiteness  of  the  lady’s 
heavy  cheek. 

“ Miss  Searle  knows  nothing  ! ” said  our  host,  with 
zeal. 

This  utterance  seemed  to  kindle  in  my  friend  a gen- 
erous opposing  zeal.  “ She  shall  know  at  least  the  tale 
of  Mistress  Margaret,”  he  cried,  and  walked  rapidly 
away  in  search  of  her. 

Mr.  Searle  and  I pursued  our  march  through  the 
lighted  rooms.  “ You’ve  found  a cousin,”  I said,  “ with 
a vengeance.” 

“ Ah,  a vengeance  ? ” said  my  host,  stiffly. 

“ I mean  that  he  takes  as  keen  an  interest  in  your 
annals  and  possessions  as  yourself.” 

“ 0,  exactly  so  ! ” and  Mr.  Searle  hurst  into  resound- 
ing laughter.  “ He  tells  me,”  he  resumed,  in  a mo- 
ment, “ that  he  is  an  invalid.  I should  never  have 
fancied  it.” 

“ Within  the  past  few  hours,”  I said,  “ he ’s  a changed 
man.  Your  place  and  your  kindness  have  refreshed 
him  immensely.” 

Mr.  Searle  uttered  the  little  shapeless  ejaculation 
with  which  many  an  Englishman  is  apt  to  announce 
the  concussion  of  any  especial  courtesy  of  speech.  He 
Lent  his  eyes  on  the  floor  frowningly,  and  then,  to  my 
surprise,  he  suddenly  stopped  and  looked  at  me  with  a 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


85 


penetrating  eye.  “ I ’m  an  honest  man ! ” he  said.  I 
was  quite  prepared  to  assent ; hut  he  went  on,  with  a 
sort  of  fury  of  frankness,  as  if  it  was  the  first  time  in 
his  life  that  he  had  been  prompted  to  expound  himself, 
as  if  the  process  was  mightily  unpleasant  to  him  and 
he  was  hurrying  through  it  as  a task.  “ An  honest 
man,  mind  you ! I know  nothing  about  Mr.  Clement 
Searle  ! I never  expected  to  see  him.  He  has  been  to 
me  a — a — ” And  here  Mr.  Searle  paused  to  select 
a word  which  should  vividly  enough  express  what,  for 
good  or  for  ill,  his  kinsman  had  been  to  him.  “ He 
has  been  to  me  an  amazement ! I have  no  doubt  he  is 
a most  amiable  man  ! You  ’ll  not  deny,  however,  that 
he ’s  a very  odd  style  of  person.  I ’m  sorry  he ’s  ill ! 
I ’m  sorry  he ’s  poor ! He ’s  my  fiftieth  cousin  ! Well 
and  good ! I’m  an  honest  man.  He  shall  not  have  it 
to  say  that  he  was  not  received  at  my  house.” 

“ He,  too,  thank  heaven ! is  an  honest  man ! ” I said, 
smiling. 

“ Why  the  deuce,  then,”  cried  Mr.  Searle,  turning 
almost  fiercely  upon  me,  “has  he  established  this 
underhand  claim  to  my  property  ? ” 

This  startling  utterance  flashed  backward  a gleam  of 
light  upon  the  demeanor  of  our  host  and  the  suppressed 
agitation  of  his  sister.  In  an  instant  the  jealous  soul 
of  the  unhappy  gentleman  revealed  itself.  For  a mo- 
ment I was  so  amazed  and  scandalized  at  the  directness 


86 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


of  his  attack  that  I lacked  words  to  respond.  As  soon 
as  he  had  spoken,  Mr.  Searle  appeared  to  feel  that  he 
had  struck  too  hard  a blow.  “ Excuse  me,  sir,”  he  hur- 
ried on,  “ if  I speak  of  this  matter  with  heat.  But  I 
have  seldom  suffered  so  grievous  a shock  as  on  learn- 
ing, as  I learned  this  morning  from  my  solicitor,  the 
monstrous  proceedings  of  Mr.  Clement  Searle.  Great 
heaven,  sir,  for  what  does  the  man  take  me  ? He  pre- 
tends to  the  Lord  knows  what  fantastic  passion  for  my 
place.  Let  him  respect  it,  then.  Let  him,  with  his 
tawdry  parade  of  imagination,  imagine  a tithe  of  what 
I feel.  I love  my  estate ; it  ’s'  my  passion,  my  life, 
myself!  Am  I to  make  a great  hole  in  it  for  a beg- 
garly foreigner,  a man  without  means,  without  proof, 
a stranger,  an  adventurer,  a Bohemian  ? I thought 
yj(  America  boasted  that  she  had  land  for  all  men ! Upon 
my  soul,  sir,  I have  never  been  so  shocked  in  my  life.” 

I paused  for  some  moments  before  speaking,  to  allow 
his  passion  fully  to  expend  itself  and  to  flicker  up 
again  if  it  chose ; for  on  my  own  part  it  seemed  well 
that  I should  answer  him  once  for  all.  “ Your  really 
absurd  apprehensions,  Mr.  Searle,”  I said  at  last,  — 
“ your  terrors,  I may  call  them,  — have  fairly  over- 
mastered your  common-sense.  You  are  attacking  a 
man  of  straw,  a creature  of  base  illusion  ; though  I ’m 
sadly  afraid  you  have  wounded  a man  of  spirit  and  of 
conscience.  Either  my  friend  has  no  valid  claim  on 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


87 


your  estate,  in  which  case  your  agitation  is  super- 
fluous; or  he  has  a valid  claim  — ” 

Mr.  Searle  seized  my  arm  and  glared  at  me,  as  I 
may  say ; his  pale  face  paler  still  with  the  horror  of 
my  suggestion,  his  great  keen  eyes  flashing,  and  his 
flamboyant  hair  erect  and  quivering. 

“ A valid  claim  ! ” he  whispered.  “ Let  him  try  it ! ” 
We  had  emerged  into  the  great  hall  of  the  mansion 
and  stood  facing  the  main  doorway.  The  door  stood 
open  into  the  porch,  through  whose  stone  archway  I 
saw  the  garden  glittering  in  the  blue  light  of  a full 
moon.  As  Mr.  Searle  uttered  the  words  I have  just 
repeated,- 1 beheld  my  companion  come  slowly  up  into 
the  porch  from  without,  bareheaded,  bright  in  the 
outer  moonlight,  dark  then  in  the  shadow  of  the 
archway,  and  bright  again  in  the  lamplight  on  the 
threshold  of  the  hall.  As  he  crossed  the  threshold 
the  butler  made  his  appearance  at ' the  head  of  the 
staircase  on  our  left,  faltered  visibly  a moment  on 
seeing  Mr,  Searle ; but  then,  perceiving  my  friend,  he 
gravely  descended.  He  bore  in  his  hand  a small 
plated  salver.  On  the  salver,  gleaming  in  the  light 
of  the  suspended  lamp,  lay  a folded  note.  Clement 
Searle  came  forward,  staring  a little  and  startled,  I 
think,  by  some  fine  sense  of  a near  explosion.  The 
butler  applied  the  match.  He  advanced  toward  my 
friend,  extending  salver  and  note.  Mr.  Searle  made  a 


88 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


movement  as  if  to  spring  forward,  but  controlled  him- 
self. “ Tottenham  ! ” he  shouted,  in  a strident  voice. 

“Yes,  sir!”  said  Tottenham,  halting. 

“ Stand  where  you  are.  For  whom  is  that  note  ? ” 

“ For  Mr.  Clement  Searle,”  said  the  butler,  staring 
straight  before  him  as  if  to  discredit  a suspicion  of  his 
having  read  the  direction. 

“ Who  gave  it  to  you  ? ” 

“ Mrs.  Horridge,  sir.”  (The  housekeeper.) 

“ Who  gave  it  Mrs.  Horridge  ? ” 

There  was  on  Tottenham’s  part  just  an  infinitesimal 
pause  before  replying. 

“ My  dear  sir,”  broke  in  Searle,  completely  sobered 
by  the  sense  of  violated  courtesy,  “ is  n’t  that  rather 
my  business  ? ” 

“ What  happens  in  my  house  is  my  business ; and 
mighty  strange  things  seem  to  be  happening.”  Mr. 
Searle  had  become  exasperated  to  that  point  that,  a 
rare  thing  for  an  Englishman,  he  compromised  himself 
before  a servant. 

“ Bring  me  the  note ! ” he  cried.  The  butler 
obeyed. 

“ Really,  this  is  too  much ! ” cried  my  companion, 
affronted  and  helpless. 

I was  disgusted.  Before  Mr.  Searle  had  time  to 
take  the  note,  I possessed  myself  of  it.  “ If  you  have 
no  regard  for  your  sister,”  I said,  “let  a stranger,  at 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


89 


least,  act  for  her.”  And  I tore  the  disputed  thing 
into  a dozen  pieces. 

“ In  the  name  of  decency,”  cried  Searle,  “ what  does 
this  horrid  business  mean  ? ” 

Mr.  Searle  was  about  to  break  out  upon  him ; but 
at  this  moment  his  sister  appeared  on  the  staircase, 
summoned  evidently  by  our  high-pitched  and  angry 
voices.  She  had  exchanged  her  dinner-dress  for 
a dark  dressing-gown,  removed  her  ornaments,  and 
begun  to  disarrange  her  hair,  a heavy  tress  of  which 
escaped  from  the  comb.  She  hurried  downward,  with 
a pale,  questioning  face.  Feeling  distinctly  that,  for 
ourselves,  Immediate  departure  was  in  the  air,  and 
divining  Mr.  Tottenham  to  be  a butler  of  remarkable 
intuitions  and  extreme  celerity,  I seized  the  oppor- 
tunity to  request  him,  sotto  voce,  to  send  a carriage 
to  the  door  without  delay.  “ And  put  up  our  things,” 
I added. 

Our  host  rushed  at  his  sister  and  seized  the  white 
wrist  which  escaped  from  the  loose  sleeve  of  her 
dress.  “ What  was  in  that  note  ? ” he  demanded. 

Miss  Searle  looked  first  at  its  scattered  fragments 
and  then  at  her  cousin.  “ Did  you  read  it  ? ” she  asked. 

“No,  but  I thank  you  for  it!”  said  Searle. 

Her  eyes  for  an  instant  communed  brightly  with 
his  own ; then  she  transferred  them  to  her  brother’s 
face,  where  the  light  went  out  of  them  and  left  a 


90 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


dull,  sad  patience.  An  inexorable  patience  he  seemed 
to  find  it : he  flushed  crimson  with  rage  and  the  sense 
of  his  unhandsomeness,  and  flung  her  away.  “ You  ’re 
a child ! ” he  cried.  “ Go  to  bed.” 

In  poor  Searle’s  face  as  well  the  gathered  serenity 
was  twisted  into  a sickened  frown,  and  the  reflected 
brightness  of  his  happy  day  turned  to  blank  confu- 
sion. “ Have  I been  dealing  these  three  hours  with  a 
madman  ? ” he  asked  plaintively. 

“ A madman,  yes,  if  you  will ! A man  mad  with 
the  love  of  his  home  and  the  sense  of  its  stability. 
I have  held  my  tongue  till  now,  but  you  have  been 
too  much  for  me.  Who  are  you,  what  are  you  ? 
From  what  paradise  of  fools  do  you  come,  that  you 
fancy  I shall  cut  off  a piece  of  my  land,  my  home, 
my  heart,  to  toss  to  you  ? Forsooth,  I shall  share 
my  land  with  you  ? Prove  your  infernal  claim ! 
There  is  n’t  that  in  it ! ” And  he  kicked  one  of  the 
bits  of  paper  on  the  floor. 

Searle  received  this  broadside  gaping.  Then  turn- 
ing away,  he  went  and  seated  himself  on  a bench 
against  the  wall  and  rubbed  his  forehead  amazedly. 
I looked  at  my  watch,  and  listened  for  the  wheels  of 
our  carriage. 

Mr.  Searle  went  on.  “Wasn’t  it  enough  that  you 
should  have  practised  against  my  property?  Need 
you  have  come  into  my  very  house  to  practise  against 
my  sister?” 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


91 


Searle  put  his  two  hands  to  his  face.  “ Oh,  oh,  oh ! ” 
he  softly  roared. 

Miss  Searle  crossed  rapidly  and  dropped  on  her 
knees  at  his  side. 

“ Go  to  bed,  you  fool ! ” shrieked  her  brother. 

“Dear  cousin,”  said  Miss  Searle,  “it’s  cruel  that 
you  are  to  have  to  think  of  us  so  ! ” 

“ O,  I shall  think  of  you ! ” he  said.  And  he  laid 
a hand  on  her  head. 

“ I believe  you  have  done  nothing  wrong ! ” she 
murmured. 

“ I ’ve  done  what  I could,”  her  brother  pursued. 
“But  it"’s  arrant  folly  to  pretend  to  friendship  when 
this  abomination  lies  between  us.  You  were  wel- 
come to  my  meat  and  my  wine,  but  I wonder  you 
could  swallow  them.  The  sight  spoiled  my  appe- 
tite!” cried  the  furious  little  man,  with  a laugh. 
“ Proceed  with  your  case  ! My  people  in  London  are 
instructed  and  prepared.” 

“I  have  a fancy,”  I said  to  Searle,  “that  your 
case  has  vastly  improved  since  you  gave  it  up.” 

“ Oho  ! you  don’t  feign  ignorance,  then  ? ” and  he 
shook  his  flaming  dievelure,  at  me.  “It  is  very  kind 
of  you  to  give  it  up ! ” And  he  laughed  resound- 
ingly. “Perhaps  you  will  also  give  up  my  sister!” 

Searle  sat  in  his  chair  in  a species  of  collapse, 
staring  at  his  adversary.  “ 0 miserable  man ! ” he 


92 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


moaned  at  last.  “ I fancied  we  had  become  such 
friends  ! ” 

“ Boh  ! you  imbecile ! ” cried  our  host. 

Searle  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  “Am  I serious- 
ly expected,”  he  pursued,  slowly  and  painfully,  — 
“ am  I seriously  expected  — to  — to  sit  here  and  de- 
fend myself  — to  prove  I have  done  nothing  wrong  ? 
Think  what  you  please.”  And  he  rose,  with  an  ef- 
fort, to  his  feet.  “ I know  what  you  think ! n he 
added,  to  Miss  Searle. 

The  carriage  wheels  resounded  on  the  gravel,  and 
at  the  same  moment  the  footman  descended  with 
our  two  portmanteaus.  Mr.  Tottenham  followed  him 
with  our  hats  and  coats. 

“ Good  God ! ” cried  Mr.  Searle ; “ you  are  not  go- 
ing away  ! ” This  ejaculation,  under  the  circumstan- 
ces, had  a grand  comicality  which  prompted  me  to 
violent  laughter.  “ Bless  my  soul ! ” he  added ; “ of 
course  you  are  going.” 

“ It ’s  perhaps  well,”  said  Miss  Searle,  with  a great 
effort,  inexpressibly  touching  in  one  for  whom  great 
efforts  were  visibly  new  and  strange,  “ that  I should 
tell  you  what  my  poor  little  note  contained.” 

“ That  matter  of  your  note,  madam,”  said  her  broth- 
er, “ you  and  I will  settle  together  ! ” 

“ Let  me  imagine  its  contents,”  said  Searle. 

“Ah!  they  have  been  too  much  imagined ! *”  she 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


93 


answered  simply.  “ It  was  only  a word  of  warning. 
I knew  something  painful  was  coming.” 

Searle  took  his  hat.  “ The  pains  and  the  pleasures 
of  this  day,”  he  said  to  his  kinsman,  “ I shall  equally 
never  forget.  Knowing  you,”  and  he  offered  his  hand 
to  Miss  Searle,  “has  been  the  pleasure  of  pleasures. 
I hoped  something  more  was  to  come  of  it  ” 

“ A deal  too  much  has  come  of  it ! ” cried  our  host, 
irrepressibly. 

Searle  looked  at  him  mildly,  almost  benignantly, 
from  head  to  foot ; and  then  closing  his  eyes  with 
an  air  of  sudden  physical  distress : “I'm  afraid  so  ! 
I can’t  stahd  more  of  this.”  I gave  him  my  arm, 
and  crossed  the  threshold.  As  we  passed  out  I 
heard  Miss  Searle  burst  into  a torrent  of  sobs. 

“We  shall  hear  from  each  other  yet,  I take  it!” 
cried  her  brother,  harassing  our  retreat. 

Searle  stopped  and  turned  round  on  him  sharply, 
almost  fiercely.  “ 0 ridiculous  man  ! ” he  cried. 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  you  shall  not  prosecute  ? ” 
screamed  the  other.  “ I shall  force  you  to  prose- 
cute ! I shall  drag  you  into  court,  and  you  shall  be 
beaten  — beaten  — beaten  ! ” And  this  soft  vocable 
continued  to  ring  in  our  ears  as  we  drove  away. 

We  drove,  of  course,  to  the  little  wayside  inn 
whence  we  had  departed  in  the  morning  so  unen- 
cumbered, in  all  broad  England,  with  either  enemies 


94 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


or  friends.  My  companion,  as  the  carriage  rolled 
along,  seemed  utterly  overwhelmed  and  exhausted. 
“ What  a dream  ! ” he  murmured  stupidly.  “ What 
an  awakening ! What  a long,  long  day  ! What  a 
hideous  scene  ! Poor  me  ! Poor  woman  ! ” When 
we  had  resumed  possession  of  our  two  little  neigh- 
boring rooms,  I asked  him  if  Miss  Searle’s  note  had 
been  the  result  of  anything  that  had  passed  between 
them  on  his  going  to  rejoin  her.  “ I found  her  on 
the  terrace, . he  said,  “ walking  a restless  walk  in  the 
moonlight.  I was  greatly  excited ; I hardly  know 
what  I said.  I asked  her,  I think,  if  she  knew  the 
story  of  Margaret  Searle.  She  seemed  frightened  and 
troubled,  and  she  used  just  the  words  her  brother 
had  used,  ' I know  nothing/  For  the  moment,  some- 
how, I felt  as  a man  drunk.  I stood  before  her  and 
told  her,  with  great  emphasis,  how  sweet  Margaret 
Searle  had  married  a beggarly  foreigner,  in  obedi- 
ence to  her  heart  and  in  defiance  of  her  family.  As 
I talked  the  sheeted  moonlight  seemed  to  close  about 
us,  and  we  stood  in  a dream,  in  a solitude,  in  a ro- 
mance. She  grew  younger,  fairer,  more  gracious.  I 
trembled  with  a divine  loquacity.  Before  I knew  it 
I had  gone  far.  I was  taking  her  hand  and  calling 
her  ‘ Margaret ! 7 She  had  said  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble ; that  she  could  do  nothing ; that  she  was  a fool, 
a child,  a slave.  Then,  with  a sudden  huge  convic- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


95 


tion,  I spoke  of  my  claim  against  the  estate.  ‘It 
exists,  then  ? 9 she  said.  ‘ It  exists/  I answered,  ‘ hut 
I have  foregone  it.  Be  generous ! Pay  it  from  your 
heart ! ’ For  an  instant  her  face  was  radiant.  ‘ If 
I marry  you/  she  cried,  ‘ it  will  repair  the  trouble/ 
‘ In  our  marriage/  I affirmed,  ‘ the  trouble  will  melt 
away  like  a rain-drop  in  the  ocean/  ‘Our  marriage  V 
she  repeated,  wonderingly ; and  the  deep,  deep  ring 
of  her  voice  seemed  to  shatter  the  crystal  walls  of 
our  illusion.  ‘ I must  think,  I must  think  ! 5 she 
said ; and  she  hurried  away  with  her  face  in  her 
hands.  I walked  up  and  down  the  terrace  for  some 
moments,  -and  then  came  in  and  met  you.  This  is 
the  only  witchcraft  I have  used  ! ” 

The  poor  fellow  was  at  once  so  excited  and  so  ex- 
hausted by  the  day’s  events,  that  I fancied  he  would 

get  little  sleep.  Conscious,  on  my  own  part,  of  a 

/ 

stubborn  wakefulness,  I but  partly  undressed,  set  my 
fire  a blazing,  and  sat  down  to  do  some  writing.  I 
heard  the  great  clock  in  the  little  parlor  below  strike 
twelve,  one,  half  past  one.  Just  as  the  vibration  of 
this  last  stroke  was  dying  on  the  air  the  door  of  com- 
munication into  Searle’s  room  was  flung  open,  and  my 
companion  stood  on  the  threshold,  pale  as  a corpse,  in 
his  nightshirt,  standing  like  a phantom  against  the 
darkness  behind  him.  “ Look  at  me  ! ” he  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  “ touch  me,  embrace  me,  revere  me  ! You 
see  a man  who  has  seen  a ghost!” 


96 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


“ Great  heaven,  what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ Write  it  down  ! ” he  went  on.  “There,  take  your 
pen.  Put  it  into  dreadful  words.  Make  it  of  all 
ghost-stories  the  ghostliest,  the  truest ! How  do  I 
look  ? Am  I human  ? Am  I pale  ? Am  I red  ? Am 
I speaking  English  ? A ghost,  sir ! Do  you  under- 
stand ? ” 

I confess,  there  came  upon  me,  by  contact,  a great 
supernatural  shock.  I shall  always  feel  that  I,  too, 
have  seen  a ghost.  My  first  movement  — I can’t 
smile  at  it  even  now  — was  to  spring  to  the  door, 
close  it  with  a great  blow,  and  then  turn  the  key  upon 
the  gaping  blackness  from  which  Searle  had  emerged. 
I seized  his  two  hands ; they  were  wet  with  perspira- 
tion. I pushed  my  chair  to  the  fire  and  forced  him  to 
sit  down  in  it.  I kneeled  down  before  him  and  held 
his  hands  as  firmly  as  possible.  They  trembled  and 
quivered ; his  eyes  were  fixed,  save  that  the  pupil 
dilated  and  contracted  with  extraordinary  force.  I 
asked  no  questions,  but  waited  with  my  heart  in  my 
throat.  At  last  he  spoke.  “ I ’m  not  frightened,  but 
I ’m  — 0,  excited  ! This  is  life  ! This  is  living  ! 
My  nerves  — my  heart  — my  brain ! They  are  throb- 
bing with  the  wildness  of  a myriad  lives  ! Do  you 
feel  it  ? Do  you  tingle  ? Are  you  hot  ? Are  you 
cold  ? Hold  me  tight  — tight  — tight ! I shall  trem- 
ble away  into  waves  — waves  — waves,  and  know  the 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


97 


universe  and  approach  my  Maker ! ” He  paused  a 
moment  and  then  went  on : “ A woman  — as  clear  as 
that  candle.  — No,  far  clearer!  In  a blue  dress,  with 
a black  mantle  on  her  head,  and  a little  black  muff. 
Young,  dreadfully  pretty,  pale  and  ill,  with  the  sadness 
of  all  the  women  who  ever  loved  and  suffered  pleading 
and  accusing  in  her  dead  dark  eyes.  God  knows  I 
never  did  any  such  thing  ! But  she  took  me  for  my 
elder,  for  the  other  Clement.  She  came  to  me  here  as 
she  would  have  come  to  me  there.  She  wrung  her 
hands  and  spoke  to  me.  ‘ Marry  me  ! ’ she  moaned ; 
‘ marry  me  and  right  me!’  I sat  up  in  bed  just  as  I 
sit  here,  looked  at  her,  heard  her,  — heard  her  voice 
melt  away,  watched  her  figure  fade  away.  Heaven 
and  earth  ! Here  I am ! ” 

I made  no  attempt  either  to  explain  my  friend’s 
vision  or  to  discredit  it.  It  is  enough  that  I felt  for 
the  hour  the  irresistible  contagion  of  his  own  agitation. 
On  the  whole,  I think  my  own  vision  was  the  more 
interesting  of  the  two.  He  beheld  but  the  transient, 
irresponsible  spectre:  I beheld  the  human  subject, 
hot  from  the  spectral  presence.  Nevertheless,  I soon 
recovered  my  wits  sufficiently  to  feel  the  necessity  of 
guarding  my  friend’s  health  against  the  evil  results  of 
excitement  and  exposure.  It  was  tacitly  established 
that,  for  the  night,  he  was  not  to  return  to  his 
room ; and  I soon  made  him  fairly  comfortable  in  his 

5 G 


98 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


place  by  the  fire.  Wishing  especially  to  obviate  a 
chill,  I removed  my  bedding  and  wrapped  him  about 
with  multitudinous  blankets  and  counterpanes.  I 
had  no  nerves  either  for  writing  or  sleep ; so  I put 
out  my  lights,  renewed  the  fire,  and  sat  down  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hearth.  I found  a kind  of  solemn 
entertainment  in  watching  my  friend.  Silent,  swathed 
and  muffled  to  his  chin,  he  sat  rigid  and  erect  with 
the  dignity  of  his  great  adventure.  For  the  most 
part  his  eyes  were  closed ; though  from  time  to  time 
he  would  open  them  with  a vast  steady  expansion 
and  gaze  unblinking  into  the  firelight,  as  if  he  again 
beheld,  without  terror,  the  image  of  that  blighted  maid. 
With  his  cadaverous,  emaciated  face,  his  tragic  wrin- 
kles, intensified  by  the  upward  glow  from  the  hearth, 
his  drooping  black  mustache,  his  transcendent  gravity, 
and  a certain  high  fantastical  air  in  the  flickering  alter- 
nations of  his  brow,  he  looked  like  the  vision -haunted 
knight  of  La  Mancha,  nursed  by  the  Duke  and  Duch- 
ess. The  night  passed  wholly  without  speech.  To- 
wards its  close  I slept  for  half  an  hour.  When  I awoke 
the  awakened  birds  had  begun  to  twitter.  Searle  sat 
unperturbed,  staring  at  me.  We  exchanged  a long 
look;  I felt  with  a pang  that  his  glittering  eyes  had 
tasted  their  last  of  natural  sleep.  “ How  is  it  ? are 
you  comfortable  ? ” I asked. 

He  gazed  for  some  time  without  replying.  Then 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


99 


he  spoke  with  a strange,  innocent  grandiloquence,  and 
with  pauses  between  his  words,  as  if  an  inner  voice 
were  slowly  prompting  him.  “ You  asked  me,  when 
you  first  knew  me,  what  I was.  ‘ Nothing/  I said, — 
‘ nothing/  Nothing  I have  always  deemed  myself. 
But  I have  wronged  myself.  I ’m  a personage  ! I ’m 
rare  among  men  ! I ’m  a haunted  man  ! ” 

Sleep  had  passed  out  of  his  eyes : I felt  with  a 
deeper  pang  that  perfect  sanity  had  passed  out  of  his 
voice.  From  this  moment  I prepared  myself  for  the 
worst.  There  was  in  my  friend,  however,  such  an 
essential  gentleness  and  conservative  patience,  that  to 
persons  surrounding  him  the  wTorst  was  likely  to  come 
without  hurry  or  violence.  He  had  so  confirmed  a 
habit  of  good  manners  that,  at  the  core  of  reason,  the 
process  of  disorder  might  have  been  long  at  work 
without  finding  an  issue.  As  morning  began  fully 
to  dawn  upon  us,  I brought  our  grotesque  vigil  to  an 
end.  Searle  appeared  so  weak  that  I gave  him  my 
hands  to  help  him  to  rise  from  his  chair ; he  retained 
them  for  some  moments  after  rising  to  his  feet,  from 
an  apparent  inability  to  keep  his  balance.  “ Well,” 
he  said,  “ I Ve  seen  one  ghost,  but  I doubt  of  my  liv- 
ing to  see  another.  I shall  soon  be  myself  as  brave  a 
ghost  as  the  best  of  them.  I shall  haunt  Mr.  Searle ! 
It  can  only  mean  one  thing,  — my  near,  dear  death.” 

On  my  proposing  breakfast,  “This  shall  be  my 


100 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


breakfast ! ” he  said ; and  he  drew  from  his  travelling- 
sack  a phial  of  morphine.  He  took  a strong  dose  and 
went  to  bed.  At  noon  I found  him  on  foot  again, 
dressed,  shaved,  and  apparently  refreshed.  “ Poor 
fellow  ! ” he  said,  “ you  have  got  more  than  you  bar- 
gained for,  — a ghost-encumbered  comrade.  But  it 
won't  be  for  long.”  It  immediately  became  a question, 
of  course,  whither  we  should  now  direct  our  steps. 

“As  I have  so  little  time,”  said  Searle,  “I  should 
like  to  see  the  best,  the  best  alone.”  I answered  that, 
either  for  time  or  eternity,  I had  imagined  Oxford  to 
be  the  best  thing  in  England ; and  for  Oxford  in  the 
course  of  an  hour  we  accordingly  departed. 

Of  Oxford  I feel  small  vocation  to  speak  in  detail. 
It  must  long  remain  for  an  American  one  of  the  su- 
preme gratifications  of  travel.  The  impression  it  pro- 
duces, the  emotions  it  stirs,  in  an  American  mind,  are 
too  large  and  various  to  be  compassed  by  words.  It 
seems  to  embody  with  undreamed  completeness  a kind 
^of  dim  and  sacred  ideal  of  the  Western  intellect,  — a 
scholastic  city,  an  appointed  home  of  contemplation. 
No  other  spot  in  Europe,  I imagine,  extorts  from  our 
barbarous  hearts  so  passionate  an  admiration.  A finer 
pen  than  mine  must  enumerate  the  splendid  devices  by 
which  it  performs  this  great  office ; I can  bear  testi- 
mony only  to  the  dominant  tone  of  its  effect.  Passing 
through  the  various  streets  in  which  the  obverse  longi- 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


101 


tude  of  the  hoary  college  walls  seems  to  maintain  an 
antique  stillness,  you  feel  this  to  he  the  most  dignified 
of  towns.  Over  all,  through  all,  the  great  corporate 
fact  of  the  University  prevails  and  penetrates,  like 
some  steady  bass  in  a symphony  of  lighter  chords,  like 
the  mediaeval  and  mystical  presence  of  the  Empire  in 
the  linked  dispersion  of  lesser  states.  The  plain  Gothic 
of  the  long  street-fronts  of  the  colleges  — blessed 
seraglios  of  culture  and  leisure  — irritate  the  fancy 
like  the  blank  harem-walls  of  Eastern  towns.  Within 
their  arching  portals,  however,  you  perceive  more  sa- 
cred and  sunless  courts,  and  the  dark  verdure  grateful 
and  restful  to  bookish  eyes.  The  gray -green  quadran- 
gles stand  forever  open  with  a noble  and  trustful  hos- 
pitality. The  seat  of  the  humanities  is  stronger  in  the 
admonitory  shadow  of  her  great  name  than  in  a mar- 
shalled host  of  wardens  and  beadles.  Directly  after 
our  arrival  my  friend  and  I strolled  eagerly  forth  in 
the  luminous  early  dusk.  We  reached  the  bridge 
which  passes  beneath  the  walls  of  Magdalen  and  saw 
the  eight-spired  tower,  embossed  with  its  slender  shaft- 
ings, rise  in  temperate  beauty,  — the  perfect  prose  of 
Gothic,  — wooing  the  eyes  to  the  sky,  as  it  was  slowly 
drained  of  day.  We  entered  the  little  monkish  door- 
way and  stood  in  that  dim,  fantastic  outer  court,  made 
narrow  by  the  dominant  presence  of  the  great  tower, 
in  which  the  heart  beats  faster,  and  the  swallows  niche 


102 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


more  lovingly  in  the  tangled  ivy,  I fancied,  than  else- 
where in  Oxford.  We  passed  thence  into  the  great 
cloister,  and  studied  the  little  sculptured  monsters 
along  the  entablature  of  the  arcade.  I was  pleased  to 
see  that  Searle  became  extremely  interested;  but  I 
very  soon  began  to  fear  that  the  influence  of  the  place 
would  prove  too  potent  for  his  unbalanced  imagination. 
I may  say  that  from  this  time  forward,  with  my  un- 
happy friend,  I found  it  hard  to  distinguish  between 
the  play  of  fancy  and  the  labor  of  thought,  and  to  fix 
the  balance  between  perception  and  illusion.  He  had 
already  taken  a fancy  to  confound  his  identity  with 
that  of  the  earlier  Clement  Searle ; he  now  began  to 
speak  almost  wholly  as  from  the  imagined  conscious- 
ness of  his  old-time  kinsman. 

“ This  was  my  college,  you  know/’  he  said,  “ the  no- 
blest in  all  Oxford.  How  often  I have  paced  this  gen- 
tle cloister,  side  by  side  with  a friend  of  the  hour ! My 
friends  are  all  dead,  but  many  a young  fellow  as  we 
meet  him,  dark  or  fair,  tall  or  short,  reminds  me  of 
them.  Even  Oxford,  they  say,  feels  about  its  massive 
base  the  murmurs  of  the  tide  of  time  ; there  are  things 
eliminated,  things  insinuated  ! Mine  was  ancient  Ox- 
ford, — the  fine  old  haunt  of  rank  abuses,  of  precedent 
and  privilege.  What  cared  I,  who  was  a perfect  gen- 
tleman, with  my  pockets  full  of  money  ? I had  an 
allowance  of  two  thousand  a year.” 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


103 


It  became  evident  to  me,  on  the  following  day,  that 
his  strength  had  begun  to  ebb,  and  that  he  was  un- 
equal to  the  labor  of  regular  sight-seeing.  He  read  my 
apprehension  in  my  eyes,  and  took  pains  to  assure  m$ 
that  I was  right.  “ I am  going  down  hill.  Thank 
heaven  it’s  an  easy  slope,  coated  with  English  turf 
and  with  an  English  churchyard  at  the  foot.”  The 
almost  hysterical  emotion  produced  by  our  adventure 
at  Lockley  Park  had  given  place  to  a broad,  calm  sat- 
isfaction, in  which  the  scene  around  us  was  reflected 
as  in  the  depths  of  a lucid  lake.  We  took  an  after- 
noon walk  through  Christ-Churcli  Meadow,  and  at  the 
river-bank  procured  a boat,  which  I pulled  up  the 
stream  to  Iffley  and  to  the  slanting  woods  of  ISTune- 
ham,  — the  sweetest,  flattest,  reediest  stream-side  land- 
scape that  the  heart  need  demand.  Here,  of  course, 
we  encountered  in  hundreds  the  mighty  lads  of  Eng- 
land, clad  in  white  flannel  and  blue,  immense,  fair- 
liaired,  magnificent  in  their  youth,  lounging  down  the 
current  in  their  idle  punts,  in  friendly  couples  or  in 
solitude  possibly  portentous  of  scholastic  honors ; or 
pulling  in  straining  crews  and  hoarsely  exhorted  from 
the  near  bank.  When,  in  conjunction  with  all  this 
magnificent  sport,  you  think  of  the  verdant  quietude 
and  the  silvery  sanctities  of  the  college  gardens,  you 
cannot  but  consider  that  the  youth  of  England  have 
their  porridge  well  salted.  As  my  companion  found 


104 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


himself  less  and  less  able  to  walk,  we  repaired  on 
three  successive  days  to  these  scholastic  domains,  and 
spent  long  hours  sitting  in  their  greenest  places.  They 
seemed  to  us  the  fairest  things  in  England  and  the 
ripest  and  sweetest  fruits  of  the  English  system. 
Locked  in  their  antique  verdure,  guarded  (as  in  the 
case  of  New  College)  by  gentle  battlements  of  silver- 
gray,  outshouldering  th€  matted  leafage  of  centenary 
vines,  filled  with  perfumes  and  privacy  and  memories, 
with  students  lounging  bookishly  on  the  turf  (as  if 
tenderly  to  spare  it  the  pressure  of  their  boot-heels), 
and  with  the  great  conservative  presence  of  the  college 
front  appealing  gravely  from  the  restless  outer  world, 
they  seem  places  to  lie  down  on  the  grass  in  forever, 
in  the  happy  faith  that  life  is  all  a vast  old  English 
garden,  and  time  an  endless  English  afternoon.  This 
charmed  seclusion  was  especially  grateful  to  my  friend, 
and  his  sense  of  it  reached  its  climax,  I remember,  on 
the  last  afternoon  of  our  three,  as  we  sat  dreaming  in 
the  spacious  garden  of  St.  John's.  The  long  college 
facade  here,  perhaps,  broods  over  the  lawn  with  a more 
effective  air  of  property  than  elsewhere.  Searle  fell 
into  unceasing  talk  and  exhaled  his  swarming  impres- 
sions with  a tender  felicity,  compounded  of  the  oddest 
mixture  of  wisdom  and  folly.  Every  student  who 
passed  us  was  the  subject  of  an  extemporized  romance, 
and  every  feature  of  the  place  the  theme  of  a lyric 
rhapsody. 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


105 


“Isn’t  it  all,”  he  demanded,  “a  delightful ? lie ? / 
Might  n’t  one  fancy  this  the  very  central  point  of  the 
world’s  heart,  where  all  the  echoes  of  the  world’s  life 
arrive  only  to  falter  and  die  ? Listen ! The  air  is  thick 
with  arrested  voices.  It  is  well  there  should  he  such 
places,  shaped  in  the  interest  of  factitious  needs ; 
framed  to  minister  to  the  hook-begotten  longing  for  a 
medium  in  which  one  may  dream  unwaked,  and  believe 
unconfuted ; to  fosjter  the  sweet  illusion  that  all  is  welLv^ 
in  this  weary  world,  all  perfect  and  rounded,  mellow 
and  complete  in  this  sphere  of  the  pitiful  unachieved 
and  the  dreadful  uncommenced.  The  world ’s  made ! 
Work ’s  over  ! Now  for  leisure  ! England ’s  safe ! 
Now  for  Theocritus  and  Horace,  for  lawn  and  sky ! 
What  a sense  it  all  gives  one  of  the  composite  life  of 
England,  and  how  essential  a factor  of  the  educated, 
British  consciousness  one  omits  in  not  thinking  of  Ox- 
ford ! Thank  heaven  they  had  the  wit  to  send  me  here 
in  the  other  time.  I ’m  not  much  with  it,  perhaps  ; but 
what  should  I have  been  without  it  ? The  misty  spires 
and  towers  of  Oxford  seen  far  off  on  the  level  have  been 
all  these  years  one  of  the  constant  things  of  memory. 
Seriously,  what  does  Oxford  do  for  these  people  ? Are 
they  wiser,  gentler,  richer,  deeper  ? At  moments  when 
its  massive  influence  surges  into  my  mind  like  a tidal 
wave,  I take  it  as  a sort  of  affront  to  my  dignity.  My 
soul  reverts  to  the  naked  background  of  our  own  edu- 
5* 


106 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


cation,  the  dead  white  wall  before  which  we  played  our 
parts.  I assent  to  it  all  with  a sort  of  desperate  calm- 
ness ; I bow  to  it  with  a dogged  pride.  We  are  nursed 
at  the  opposite  pole.  Naked  come  we  into  a naked 
world.  There  is  a certain  grandeur  in  the  absence  of  a 

Imise  en  scene , a certain  heroic  strain  in  those  young 
imaginations  of  the  West,  which  find  nothing  made  to 
their  hands,  which  have  to  concoct  their  own  mysteries, 
and  raise  high  into  our  morning  air,  with  a ringing 
hammer  and  nails,  the  castles  in  which  they  dwell. 
Noblesse  oblige  : Oxford  obliges.  What  a horrible  thing 
not  to  respond  to  such  obligations.  If  you  pay  the 
pious  debt  to  the  last  farthing  of  interest,  you  may 
go  through  life  with  her  blessing ; but  if  you  let  it 
| stand  unhonored,  you  are  a worse  barbarian  than  we  ! 
But  for  better  or  worse,  in  a myriad  private  hearts, 
think  how  she  must  be  loved  ! How  the  youthful  sen- 
timent of  mankind  seems  visibly  to  brood  upon  her ! 
Think  of  the  young  lives  now  taking  color  in  her  cor- 
ridors and  cloisters.  Think  of  the  centuries’  tale  of 
dead  lads,  — dead  alike  with  the  close  of  the  young 
days  to  which  these  haunts  were  a present  world  and 
the  ending  of  the  larger  lives  which  a sterner  mother- 
scene  has  gathered  into  her  massive  history ! What 
are  those  two  young  fellows  kicking  their  heels  over 
on  the  grass  there  ? One  of  them  has  the  Saturday 
lieview  ; the  other  — upon  my  soul  — the  other  has 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


107 


Artemus  Ward  ! Where  do  they  live,  how  do  they 
live,  to  what  end  do  they  live  ? Miserable  boys  ! How 
can  they  read  Artemus  Ward  under  those  windows  of 
Elizabeth  ? What  do  you  think  loveliest  in  all  Ox- 
ford ? The  poetry  of  certain  windows.  Do  you  see 
that*  one  yonder,  the  second  of  those  lesser  bays,  with 
the  broken  mullion  and  open  casement  ? That  used  to 
be  the  window  of  my  fidus  Achates , a hundred  years 
ago.  Remind  me  to  tell  you  the  story  of  that  broken 
mullion.  Don’t  tell  me  it  ’s  not  a common  thing  to 
have  one’s  fidus  Achates  at  another  college.  Pray,  was 
I pledged  to  common  things  ? He  was  a charming 
fellow.  By  the  way,  he  was  a good  deal  like  you. 
Of  course  his  cocked  hat,  his  long  hair  in  a black 
ribbon,  his  cinnamon  velvet  suit,  and  his  flowered 
waistcoat  made  a difference ! We  gentlemen  used  to 
wear  swords.” 

'There  was  something  surprising  and  impressive  in 
my  friend’s  gushing  magniloquence.  The  poor  dis- 
heartened loafer  had  turned  rhapsodist  and  seer.  I 
was  particularly  struck  with  his  having  laid  aside 
the  diffidence  and  shy  self-consciousness  which  had 
marked  him  during  the  first  days  of  our  acquaintance. 
He  was  becoming  more  and  more  a disembodied  ob-^y 
server  and  critic;  the  shell  of  sense,  growing  daily 
thinner  and  more  transparent,  transmitted  the  tremor 
of  his  quickened  spirit.  He  revealed  an  unexpected 


] 08 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


faculty  for  becoming  acquainted  with  the  lounging 
gownsmen  whom  we  met  in  our  vague  peregrinations. 
If  I left  him  for  ten  minutes,  I was  sure  to  find 
him,  on  my  return,  in  earnest  conversation  with  some 
affable  wandering  scholar.  Several  young  men  with 
whom  he  had  thus  established  relations  invited  him 
to  their  rooms  and  entertained  him,  as  I gathered, 
with  boisterous  hospitality.  For  myself,  I chose  not 
to  be  present  on  these  occasions ; I shrunk  partly 
from  being  held  in  any  degree  responsible  for  his 
vagaries,  and  partly  from  witnessing  that  painful 
aggravation  of  them  which  I feared  might,  be  induced 
by  champagne  and  youthful  society.  He  reported 
these  adventures  with  less  eloquence  than  I had 
fancied  he  might  use ; but,  on  the  whole,  I suspect 
that  a certain  method  in  his  madness,  a certain  firm- 
ness in  his  most  melting  bonhomie , had  insured  him 
perfect  respect.  Two  things,  however,  became  evident, 
— that  he  drank  more  champagne  than  was  good  for 
him,  and  that  the  boyish  grossness  of  his  entertainers 
tended  rather,  on  reflection,  to  disturb  in  his  mind 
the  pure  image  of  Oxford.  At  the  same  time  it 
completed  his  knowledge  of  the  place.  Making  the 
acquaintance  of  several  tutors  and  fellows,  he  dined 
in  Hall  in  half  a dozen  colleges,  and  alluded  after- 
wards to  these  banquets  with  a sort  of  religious 
unction.  One  evening,  at  the  close  of  one  of  these 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


109 


entertainments,  lie  came  back  to  the  hotel  in  a cab, 
accompanied  by  a friendly  student  and  a physician, 
looking  deadly  pale.  He  had  swooned  away  on  leav- 
ing table,  and  had  remained  so  stubbornly  uncon- 
scious as  to  excite  great  alarm  among  his  companions. 
The  following  twenty-four  hours,  of  course,  he  spent 
in  bed;  but  on  the  third  day  he  declared  himself 
strong  enough  to  go  out.  On  reaching  the  street  his 
strength  again  forsook  him,  and  I insisted  upon  his 
returning  to  his  room.  He  besought  me  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  not  to  shut  him  up.  “ It ’s  my  last 
chance,”  he  said.  “ I want  to  go  back  for  an  hour 
to  that  garden  of  St.  John’s.  Let  me  look  and  feel; 
to-morrow  I die.”  It  seemed  to  me  possible  that 
with  a Bath-chair  the  expedition  might  be  accom- 
plished. The  hotel,  it  appeared,  possessed  such  a con- 
venience : it  was  immediately  produced.  It  became 
necessary  hereupon  that  we  should  have  a person  to 
propel  the  chair.  As  there  was  no  one  available  on 
the  spot,  I prepared  to  perform  the  office;  but  just 
as  Searle  had  got  seated  and  wrapped  (he  had  come 
to  suffer  acutely  from  cold),  an  elderly  man  emerged 
from  a lurking-place  near  the  door,  and,  with  a 
formal  salute,  offered  to  wTait  upon  the  gentleman. 
We  assented,  and  he  proceeded  solemnly  to  trundle 
the  chair  before  him.  I recognized  him  as  an  in- 
dividual whom  I had  seen  lounging  shyly  about  the 


110 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


hotel  doors,  at  intervals  during  our  stay,  with  a de- 
pressed air  of  wanting  employment  and  a hopeless 
doubt  of  finding  any.  He  had  once,  indeed,  in  a 
half-hearted  way,  proposed  himself  as  an  amateur 
cicerone  for  a tour  through  the  colleges ; and  I now, 
as  I looked  at  him,  remembered  with  a pang  that  1 
had  declined  his  services  with  untender  curtness. 
Since  then,  his  shyness,  apparently,  had  grown  less 
or  his  misery  greater ; for  it  was  with  a strange, 
grim  avidity  that  he*  now  attached  himself  to  our 
service.  He  was  a pitiful  image  of  shabby  gentility 
and  the  dinginess  of  “ reduced  circumstances.”  He 
imparted  an  original  force  to  the  term  “ seedy.”  He 
was,  I suppose,  some  fifty  years  of  age ; but  his  pale, 
haggard,  unwholesome  visage,  his  plaintive,  drooping 
carriage,  and  the  irremediable  decay  of  his  apparel, 
seemed  to  add  to  the  burden  of  his  days  and  ex- 
perience. His  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  weak-looking, 
his  handsome  nose  had  turned  to  purple,  and  his 
sandy  beard,  largely  streaked  with  gray,  bristled  with 
a month’s  desperate  indifference  to  the  razor.  In  all 
this  rusty  forlornness  there  lurked  a visible  assurance 
of  our  friend’s  having  known  better  days.  Obviously, 
he  was  the  victim  of  some  fatal  depreciation  in  the 
market  value  of  pure  gentility.  There  had  been 
something  terribly  pathetic  in  the  way  he  fiercely 
merged  the  attempt  to  touch  the  greasy  rim  of  his 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


Ill 


antiquated  hat  into  a rounded  and  sweeping  bow,  as 
from  jaunty  equal  to  equal.  Exchanging  a few 
words  with  him  as  we  went  along,  I wTas  struck 
with  the  refinement  of  his  tone. 

“ Take  me  by  some  long  roundabout  way,”  said 
Searle,  “so  that  I may  see  as  many  college  walls  as 
possible.” 

“ You  can  wander  without  losing  your  way  ? ” I 
asked  of  our  attendant. 

“ I ought  to  be  able  to,  sir,”  he  said,  after  a moment, 
with  pregnant  gravity.  And  as  we  were  passing  Wad- 
ham  College,  “ That ’s  my  college,  sir,”  he  added. 

At  these  words,  Searle  commanded  him  to  stop  and 
come  and  stand  in  front  of  him.  “You  say  that  is 
your  college  ? ” he  demanded. 

“ Wadham  might  deny  me,  sir;  but  Heaven  forbid  I 
should  deny  Wadham.  If  you  ’ll  allow  me  to  take  you 
into  the  quad,  I ’ll  show  you  my  window's,  thirty  years 
ago  ! ” 

Searle  sat  staring,  with  his  huge,  pale  eyes,  which 
now  had  come  to  usurp  the  greatest  place  in  his 
vested  visage,  filled  with  wonder  and  pity.  “ If  you  ’ll 
be  so  kind,”  he  said,  wdth  immense  politeness.  But 
just  as  this  degenerate  son  of  Wadham  was  about  to 
propel  him  across  the  threshold  of  the  court,  he  turned 
about,  disengaged  his  hands,  with  his  owTn  hand,  from 
the  back  of  the  chair,  drew  him  alongside  of  him  and 


112 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


turned  to  me.  “ While  we  are  here,  my  dear  fellow,” 
he  said,  “ be  so  good  as  to  perform  this  service.  You 
understand  ? ” I smiled  sufferance  at  our  companion, 
and  we  resumed  our  way.  The  latter  showed  us  his 
window  of  thirty  years  ago,  where  now  a rosy  youth  in 
a scarlet  smoking-fez  was  puffing  a cigarette  in  the 
open  lattice.  Thence  we  proceeded  into  the  little  gar- 
den, the  smallest,  I believe,  and  certainly  the  sweetest 
of  all  the  bosky  resorts  in  Oxford.  I pushed  the  chair 
along  to  a bench  on  the  lawn,  wheeled  it  about  toward 
the  facade  of  the  college,  and  sat  down  on  the  grass. 
Our  attendant  shifted  himself  mournfully  from  one 
foot  to  the  other.  Searle  eyed  him  open-mouthed. 
At  length  he  broke  out : “ God  bless  my  soul,  sir,  you 
don’t  suppose  that  I expect  you  to  stand  ! There ’s  an 
empty  bench.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  our  friend,  bending  his  joints  to 
sit. 

“ You  English,”  said  Searle,  “ are  really  fabulous  ! 
I don’t  know  whether  I most  admire  you  or  despise 
you  ! Now  tell  me : who  are  you  ? what  are  you  ? 
what  brought  you  to  this  ? ” 

The  poor  fellow  blushed  up  to  his  eyes,  took  off  his 
hat,  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  a ragged  handker- 
chief. “ My  name  is  Rawson,  sir.  Beyond  that,  it ’s  a 
long  story.”  . 

“ I ask  out  of  sympathy,”  said  Searle.  “ I have  a 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


113 


fellow-feeling!  You’re  a poor  devrt;  I ’m  a poor 
devil  too” 

“ I ’m  the  poorer  devil  of  the  two,”  said  the  stranger, 
with  a little  emphatic  nod  of  the  head. 


“ Possibly.  I suppose  an  English  poor  devil  is  the  \t 
poorest  of  all  poor  devils.  And  then,  you  have  fallen 
from  a height.  From  Wadham  College  as  a gentleman 
commoner  (is  that  what  they  called  you  ?)  to  Wadham 
College  as  a Bath-chair  man  ! Good  heavens,  man, 
the  fall’s  enough  to  kill  you!” 

“ I did  n’t  take  it  all  at  tfnce,  sir.  I dropped  a bit 
one  time  and  a bit  another.” 

“ Thaf ’s  me,  that ’s  me  ! ” cried  Searle,  clapping  his 


hands. 


“ And  now,”  said  our  friend,  “ I believe  I can’t 
drop  further.” 

“ My  dear  fellow,”  and  Searle  clasped  his  hand 
and  shook  it,  “ there’s  a perfect  similarity  in  our 


lot.” 


Mr.  Eawson  lifted  his  eyebrows.  “ Save  for  the 
difference  of  sitting  in  a Bath-chair  and  walking  be- 
hind it ! ” 

“ 0,  I ’m  at  my  last  gasp,  Mr.  Bawson.” 

“ I ’m  at  my  last  penny,  sir.” 

“ Literally,  Mr.  Eawson  ? ” 

Mr.  Eawson  shook  his  head,  with  a world  of  vague 
bitterness.  “ I have  almost  come  to  the  point,”  he 


ii 


114 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


said,  “ of  drinking  my  beer  and  buttoning  my  coat 
figuratively ; but  I don’t  talk  in  figures.” 

Fearing  that  the  conversation  had  taken  a turn 
which  might  seem  to  cast  a rather  fantastic  light  upon 
Mr.  Eawson’s  troubles,  I took  the  liberty  of  asking 
him  with  great  gravity  how  he  made  a living. 

“ I don’t  make  a living,”  he  answered,  with  tearful 
eyes,  “ I can’t  make  a living.  I have  a wife  and  three 
children,  starving,  sir.  You  would  n’t  believe  what  I 
have  come  to.  I sent  my  wife  to  her  mother’s,  who 
can  ill  afford  to  keep  her,  and  came  to  Oxford  a week 
ago,  thinking  I might  pick  up  a few  half-crowns  by 
showing  people  about  the  colleges.  But  it ’s  no  use. 
I haven’t  the  assurance.  I don’t  look  decent.  They 
want  a nice  little  old  man  with  black  gloves,  and  a 
clean  shirt,  and  a silver-headed  stick.  What  do  I 
look  as  if  I knew  about  Oxford,  sir?” 

“Dear  me,”  cried  Searle,  “why  didn’t  you  speak  to 
us  before  ? ” 

“ I wanted  to ; half  a dozen  times  I have  been  on 
the  point  of  it.  I knew  you  were  Americans.” 

“ And  Americans  are  rich  ! ” cried  Searle,  laughing. 
“ My  dear  Mr.  Rawson,  American  as  I am,  I ’m  living 
on  charity.” 

“ And  I ’m  not,  sir  ! There  it  is.  I ’m  dying  for 
the  want  of  charity.  You  say  you’re  a pauper;  it 
/ takes  an  American  pauper  to  go  bowling  about  in  a 
Bath-chair.  America ’s  an  easy  country.” 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


115 


“ Ah  me  ! ” groaned  Searle.  “ Have  I come  to  Wad- 
ham  gardens  to  hear  the  praise  of  America  ? ” 

“ Wadham  gardens  are  very  well ! ” said  Mr.  Raw- 
son  ; “ but  one  may  sit  here  hungry  and  shabby,  so 
long  as  one  is  n’t  too  shabby,  as  well  as  elsewhere. 
You  ’ll  Lot  persuade  me  that  it ’s  not  an  easier  thing 
to  keep  afloat  yonder  than  here.  I wish  I were  there, 
that ’s  all ! ” added  Mr.  Rawson,  with  a sort  of  feeble- 
minded  energy.  Then  brooding  for  a moment  on  his 
wrongs : “ Have  you  a brother  ? or  you,  sir  ? It  mat- 
ters little  to  you.  But  it  has  mattered  to  me  with  a 
vengeance!  Shabby  as  I sit  here,  I have  a brother 
with  his  five  thousand  a year.  Being  a couple  of  years 
my  senior,  he  gorges  while  I starve.  There ’s  England 
for  you  ! A very  pretty  place  for  him  ! ” 

“Poor  England  ! ” said  Searle,  softly. 

“ Has  your  brother  never  helped  you  ? ” I asked. 

“ A twenty-pound  note  now  and  then  ! I don’t  say 
that  there  have  not  been  times  when  I have  sorely 
tried  his  generosity.  I have  not  been  what  I should. 
I married  dreadfully  amiss.  But  the  devil  of  it  is 
that  he  started  fair  and  I started  foul ; with  the 
tastes,  the  desires,  the  needs,  the  sensibilities  of  a 
gentleman,  — and  nothing  else  ! I can’t  afford  to  live 
in  England.” 

“ This  poor  gentleman,”  said  I,  “ fancied  a couple  of 
months  ago  that  he  could  n’t  afford  to  live  in  America.” 


116 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


“ I ’d  change  chances  with  him ! ” And  Mr.  Rawson 
gave  a passionate  slap  to  his  knee. 

Searle  reclined  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  closed  and 
his  face  twitching  with  violent  emotion.  Suddenly  he 
opened  his  eyes  with  a look  of  awful  gravity.  “ My 
friend,”  he  said,  “ you  he  a failure ! Be  judged ! 
Don’t  talk  about  chances.  Don’t  talk  about  fair  starts 
and  foul  starts.  I ’m  at  that  point  myself  that  I have 
a right  to  speak.  It  lies  neither  in  one’s  chance  nor 
one’s  start  to  make  one  a success ; nor  in  anything 
one’s  brother  can  do  or  can  undo.  It  lies  in  one’s  will ! 
You  and  I,  sir,  have  had  none ; that ’s  very  plain ! 
We  have  been  weak,  sir  ; as  weak  as  water.  Here  we 
are,  sitting  staring  in  each  other’s  faces  and  reading 
our  weakness  in  each  other’s  eyes.  We  are  of  no 
account ! ” 

Mr.  Rawson  received  this  address  with  a counte- 
nance in  which  heartfelt  conviction  was  oddly  min- 
gled with  a vague  suspicion  that  a proper  self-respect 
required  him  to  resent  its  unflattering  candor.  In  the 
course  of  a minute  a proper  self-respect  yielded  to  the 
warm,  comfortable  sense  of  his  being  understood,  even 
to  his  light  dishonor.  “Go  on,  sir,  go  on,”  he  said. 
“ It ’s  wholesome  truth.”  And  he  wiped  his  eyes  with 
his  dingy  handkerchief. 

“ Dear  me ! ” cried  Searle.  “ I ’ve  made  you  cry. 
Well!  we  speak  as  from  man  to  man.  I should  be 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


117 


glad  to  think  that  you  had  felt  for  a moment  the 
side-light  of  that  great  undarkening  of  the  spirit 
which  precedes  — which  precedes  the  grand  illumina- 
tion of  death.” 

Mr.  Eawson  sat  silent  for  a moment,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground  and  his  well-cut  nose  more  deeply 
tinged  by  the  force  of  emotion.  Then  at  last,  looking 
up  : “ You  he  a very  good-natured  man,  sir ; and  you  ’ll 
not  persuade  me  that  you  don’t  come  of  a good-natured 
race.  Say  what  you  please  about  a chance;  when  a 
man ’s  fifty,  — degraded,  penniless,  a husband  and 
father,  — a chance  to  get  on  his  legs  again  is  not  to 
be  despised.  Something  tells  me  that  my  chance  is 
in  your  country,  — that  great  home  of  chances.  I can 
starve  here,  of  course;  but  I don’t  want  to  starve. 
Hang  it,  sir,  I want  to  live.  I see  thirty  years  of  life 
before  me  yet.  If  only,  by  God’s  help,  I could  spend 
them  there ! It ’s  a fixed  idea  of  mine.  I ’ve  had  it 
for  the  last  ten  years.  It ’s  not  that  I ’m  a radical. 
I ’ve  no  ideas ! Old  England ’s  good  enough  for  me, 
but  I ’m  not  good  enough  for  old  England.  I ’m  a 
shabby  man  that  wants  to  get  out  of  a room  full  of 
staring  gentlefolks.  I ’m  forever  put  to  the  blush. 
It’s  a perfect  agony  of  spirit.  Everything  reminds 
me  of  my  younger  and  better  self.  0,  for  a cooling, 
cleansing  plunge  into  the  unknowing  and  the  un- 
known! I lie  awake  thinking  of  it.” 


118 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


Searle  closed  his  eyes  and  shivered  with  a long- 
drawn  tremor  which  I hardly  knew  whether  to  take 
for  an  expression  of  physical  or  of  mental  pain.  In 
a moment  I perceived  it  was  neither.  “ 0 my  country, 
my  country,  my  country ! ” he  murmured  in  a broken 
voice;  and  then  sat  for  some  time  abstracted  and 
depressed.  I intimated  to  our  companion  that  it  was 
time  we  should  bring  our  stance  to  a close,  and  he, 
without  hesitating,  possessed  himself  of  the  little  hand- 
rail of  the  Bath-chair  and  pushed  it  before  him.  We 
had  got  half-way  home  before  Searle  spoke  or  moved. 
Suddenly  in  the  High  Street,  as  we  were  passing  in 
front  of  a chop-house,  from  whose  open  doors  there 
proceeded  a potent  suggestion  of  juicy  joints  and  suet 
puddings,  he  motioned  us  to  halt.  “ This  is  my  last 
five  pounds/’  he  said,  drawing  a note  from  his  pocket- 
book.  “Do  me  the  favor,  Mr.  Bawson,  to  accept  it. 
Go  in  there  and  order  a colossal  dinner.  Order  a 
bottle  of  Burgundy  and  drink  it  to  my  immortal 
health ! ” Mr.  Bawson  stiffened  himself  up  and  re- 
ceived the  gift  with  momentarily  irresponsive  fingers. 
But  Mr.  Bawson  had  the  nerves  of  a gentleman.  I 
saw  the  titillation  of  his  pointed  finger-tips  as  they 
closed  upon  the  crisp  paper ; I noted  the  fine  tremor 
in  his  empurpled  nostril  as  it  became  more  deeply 
conscious  of  the  succulent  flavor  of  the  spot.  He 
crushed  the  crackling  note  in  his  palm  with  a convul- 


sive pressure. 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


119 


“ It  shall  be  Chambertin ! ” he  said,  jerking  a spas- 
modic bow.  The  next  moment  the  door  swung  behind 
him. 

Searle  relapsed  into  his  feeble  stupor,  and  on  reach- 
ing the  hotel  I helped  him  to  get  to  bed.  Tor  the 
rest  of  the  day  he  lay  in  a half-somnolent  state,  with- 
out motion  or  speech.  The  doctor,  whom  I had  con- 
stantly in  attendance,  declared  that  his  end  was  near. 
He  expressed  great  surprise  that  he  should  have  lasted 
so  long ; he  must  have  been  living  for  a month  on  a 
cruelly  extorted  strength.  Toward  evening,  as  I sat 
by  his  bedside  in  the  deepening  dusk,  he  aroused 
himself  with  a purpose  which  I had  vaguely  felt  gath- 
ering beneath  his  quietude.  “ My  cousin,  my  cousin,1 ” 
he  said,  confusedly.  “ Is  she  here  ? ” It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  spoken  of  Miss  Searle  since  our  exit  from 
her  brother’s  house.  “ I was  to  have  married  her,” 
he  went  on.  “ What  a dream ! That  day  was  like  a 
string  of  verses  — rhymed  hours.  But  the  last  verse 
is  bad  measure.  What ’s  the  rhyme  to  ‘ love 9 ? 
Above ! Was  she  a simple  person,  a sweet  person  ? 
Or  have  I dreamed  it  ? She  had  the  healing  gift ; her 
touch  would  have  cured  my  madness.  I want  you  to 
do  something.  Write  three  lines,  three  words  : ‘ Good 
by ; remember  me ; be  happy/  ” And  then,  after  a 
long  pause : “ It ’s  strange  a man  in  my  condition 
should  have  a wish.  Heed  a man  eat  his  breakfast 


120 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


before  his  hanging  ? What  a creature  is  man ! what 
a farce  is  life ! Here  I lie,  worn  down  to  a mere 
throbbing  fever-point;  I breathe  and  nothing  more, 
and  yet  I desire  ! My  desire  lives.  If  I could  see 
her!  Help  me  out  with  it  and  let  me  die.” 

Half  an  hour  later,  at  a venture,  I despatched  a note 
to  Miss  Searle : “ Your  cousin  is  rapidly  dying.  He 
asks  to  see  you  .”  I was  conscious  of  a certain  unkind- 
ness in  doing  so.  It  would  bring  a great  trouble,  and 
no  powder  to  face  the  trouble.  But  out  of  her  distress 
I fondly  hoped  a sufficient  energy  might  be  born.  On 
the  following  day  my  friend’s  exhaustion  had  become 
so  total  that  I began  to  fear  that  his  intelligence 
was  altogether  gone.  But  towards  evening  he  rallied 
awhile,  and  talked  in  a maundering  way  about  many 
things,  confounding  in  a ghastly  jumble  the  memories 
of  the  past  weeks  and  those  of  bygone  years.  “By 
the  way,”  he  said  suddenly,  “ I have  made  no  will.  I 
have  n’t  much  to  bequeath.  Yet  I ’ve  something.” 
He  had  been  playing  listlessly  with  a large  signet-ring 
on  his  left  hand,  which  he  now  tried  to  draw  off.  “ I 
leave  you  this,”  working  it  round  and  round  vainly,  “ if 
you  can  get  it  off.  What  mighty  knuckles ! There 
must  be  such  knuckles  in  the  mummies  of  the  Pha- 
raohs. Well,  when  I ’m  gone  ! Nay,  I leave  you  some- 
thing more  precious  than  gold,  — the  sense  of  a great 
kindness.  But  1 have  a little  gold  left.  Bring  me 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


121 


those  trinkets  .”  I placed  on  the  bed  before  him  sev- 
eral articles  of  jewelry,  relics  of  early  elegance : his 
watch  and  chain,  of  great  value,  a locket  and  seal,  some 
shirt-buttons  and  scarf-pins.  He  trifled  with  ^them 
feebly  for  some  moments,  murmuring  various  names 
and  dates  associated  with  them.  At  last,  looking  up 
with  a sudden  energy,  “ What ’s  become  of  Mr.  Baw- 
son  ? ” 

“ You  want  to  see  him  ? ” 

“ How  much  are  these  things  worth  ? ” he  asked, 
wdthout  heeding  me.  “ How  much  would  they  bring  ? ” 
And  he  held  them  up  in  his  weak  hands.  “ They  have 
a great  weight.  Two  hundred  pounds  ? I am  richer 
than  I thought ! Bawson  — Bawson  — you  want  to 
get  out  of  this  awful  England.” 

I stepped  to  the  door  and  requested  the  servant, 
whom  I kept  in  constant  attendance  in  the  adjoining 
sitting-room,  to  send  and  ascertain  if  Mr.  Bawson  was 
on  the  premises.  He  returned  in  a few  moments,  in- 
troducing our  shabby  friend.  Mr.  Bawson  was  pale, 
even  to  his  nose,  and,  with  his  suppressed  agitation,  had 
an  air  of  great  distinction.  I led  him  up  to  the  bed. 
In  Searle’s  eyes,  as  they  fell  on  him,  there  shone  for  a 
moment  the  light  of  a high  fraternal  greeting. 

“ Great  God  ! ” said  Mr.  Bawson,  fervently. 

“ My  friend,”  said  Searle,  “ there  is  to  be  one  Amer- 
ican the  less.  Let  there  be  one  the  more.  At  the 


6 


122 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


worst,  you  ’ll  be  as  good  a one  as  I.  Foolish  me ! 
Take  these  trinkets ; let  them  help  you  on  your  way. 
They  are  gifts  and  memories,  but  this  is  a better  use. 
Heaven  speed  you!  May  America  be  kind  to  you. 
Be  kind,  at  the  last;  to  your  own  country  ! ” 

“ Beally,  this  is  too  much ; I can’t,”  our  friend  pro- 
tested in  a tremulous  voice.  “ Do  get  well,  and  I ’ll 
stop  here!” 

“ Nay ; I ’m  booked  for  my  journey,  you  for  yours. 
I hope  you  don’t  suffer  at  sea.” 

Mr.  Bawson  exhaled  a groan  of  helpless  gratitude, 
appealing  piteously  from  so  awful  a good  fortune. 
“ It ’s  like  the  angel  of  the  Lord,”  he  said,  “ who  bids 
people  in  the  Bible  to  rise  and  flee  ! ” 

Searle  had  sunk  back  upon  his  pillow,  exhausted : I 
led  Mr.  Bawson  back  into  the  sitting-room,  where  in 
three  words  I proposed  to  him  a rough  valuation  of  our 
friend’s  trinkets.  He  assented  with  perfect  good  breed- 
ing ; they  passed  into  my  possession  and  a second 
bank-note  into  his. 

From  the  collapse  into  which  this  beneficent  inter- 
view had  plunged  him,  Searle  gave  few  signs  of  being 
likely  to  emerge.  He  breathed,  as  he  had  said,  and 
nothing  more.  The  twilight  deepened : I lit  the 
night-lamp.  The  doctor  sat  silent  and  official  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed;  I resumed  my  constant  place  near 
the  head.  Suddenly  Searle  opened  his  eyes  widely. 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


123 


“ She  ’ll  not  come,”  he  murmured.  “ Amen  ! she ’s  an 
English  sister.”  Eive  minutes  passed.  He  started 
forward.  “ She  has  come,  she  is  here  ! ” he  whispered. 
His  words  conveyed  to  my  mind  so  absolute  an  assur- 
ance, that  I lightly  rose  and  passed  into  the  sitting- 
room.  At  the  same  moment,  through  the  opposite 
door,  the  servant  introduced  a lady.  A lady,  I say ; 
for  an  instant  she  was  simply  such ; tall,  pale,  dressed 
in  deep  mourning.  The  next  moment  I had  uttered 
her  name  — “Miss  Searle!”  She  looked  ten  years 
older. 

She  met  me,  with  both  hands  extended,  and  an 
immense  question  in  her  face.  “He  has  just  spoken 
your  name,”  I said.  And  then,  with  a fuller  con- 
sciousness of  the  change  in  her  dress  and  countenance : 
“ What  has  happened  ? ” 

“0  death,  death!”  said  Miss  Searle.  “You  and  I 
are  left.” 

There  came  to  me  with  her  words  a sort  of  sick- 
ening shock,  the  sense  of  poetic  justice  having  been 
grimly  shuffled  away.  “ Your  brother  ? ” I demanded. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  I felt  its  pressure 
deepen  as  she  spoke.  “ He  was  thrown  from  his  horse 
in  the  park.  He  died  on  the  spot.  Six  days  have 
passed.  — Six  months ! ” 

She  took  my  arm.  A moment  later  we  had  entered 
the  room  and  approached  the  bedside.  The  doctor 


124 


A PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


withdrew.  Searle  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her 
from  head  to  foot.  Suddenly  he  seemed  to  perceive 
her  mourning.  “ Already ! ” he  cried,  audibly ; with 
a smile,  as  I believe,  of  pleasure. 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  and  took  his  hand. 
“Not  for  you,  cousin/’  she  whispered.  “For  my 
poor  brother.” 

He  started  in  all  his  deathly  longitude  as  with  a 
galvanic  shock.  “ Dead  ! he  dead ! Life  itself ! ” And 
then,  after  a moment,  with  a slight  rising  inflection: 
“You  are  free?” 

“ Free,  cousin.  Sadly  free.  And  now  — now  — with 
what  use  for  freedom  ? ” 

He  looked  steadily  a moment  into  her  eyes,  dark  in 
the  heavy  shadow  of  her  musty  mourning  veil.  “ For 
me,”  he  said,  “ wear  colors  ! ” 

In  a moment  more  death  had  come,  the  doctor  had 
silently  attested  it,  and  Miss  Searle  had  burst  into 
sobs. 

We  buried  him  in  the  little  churchyard  in  which 
lie  had  expressed  the  wish  to  lie ; beneath  one  of  the 
mightiest  of  English  yews  and  the  little  tower  than 
which  none  in  all  England  has  a softer  and  hoarier 
gray.  A year  has  passed.  Miss  Searle,  I believe,  has 
begun  to  wear  colors. 


The  Last  or  the  Valerii. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERIA 


I HAD  had  occasion  to  declare  more  than  once  that 
if  my  god-daughter  married  a foreigner  I should 
refuse  to  give  her  away.  And  yet  when  the  young 
Conte  Yalerio  was  presented  to  me,  in  Rome,  as  her 
accepted  and  plighted  lover,  I found  myself  looking  at 
the  happy  fellow,  after  a momentary  stare  of  amaze- 
ment, with  a certain  paternal  benevolence;  thinking, 
indeed,  that  from  the  picturesque  point  of  view  (she 
with  her  yellow  locks  and  he  with  his  dusky  ones), 
they  were  a strikingly  well-assorted  pair.  She  brought 
him  up  to  me  half  proudly,  half  timidly,  pushing  him 
before  her,  and  begging  me  with  one  of  her  dovelike 
glances  to  be  very  polite.  I don’t  know  that  I am 
particularly  addicted  to  rudeness;  but  she  was  so 
deeply  impressed  with  his  grandeur  that  she  thought 
it  impossible  to  do  him  honor  enough.  The  Conte 
Valerio’s  grandeur  was  doubtless  -nothing  for  a young 
American  girl,  who  had  the  air  and  almost  the  habits 


128 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


of  a princess,  to  sound  her  trumpet  about;  but  she 
was  desperately  in  love  with  him,  and  not  only  her 
heart,  but  her  imagination,  was  touched.  He  was 
extremely  handsome,  and  with  a more  significant  sort 
of  beauty  than  is  common  in  the  handsome  Roman 
race.  He  had  a sort  of  sunken  depth  of  expression, 
and  a grave,  slow  smile,  suggesting  no  great  quickness 
of  wit,  but  an  unimpassioned  intensity  of  feeling  which 
promised  well  for  Martha’s  happiness.  He  had  little 
of  the  light,  inexpensive  urbanity  of  his  countrymen, 
and  more  of  a sort  of  heavy  sincerity  in  his  gaze  which 
seemed  to  suspend  response  until  he  was  sure  he  under- 
stood you.  He  was  perhaps  a little  stupid,  and  I fan- 
cied that  to  a political  or  aesthetic  question  the  response 
would  be  particularly  slow.  (t  He  is  good,  and  strong, 
and  brave,”  the  young  girl  however  assured  me ; and 
I easily  believed  her.  Strong  the  Conte  Valerio  cer- 
tainly was ; he  had  a head  and  throat  like  some  of  the 
busts  in  the  Vatican.  To  my  eye,  which  has  looked  at 
things  now  so  long  with  the  painter’s  purpose,  it  was 
a real  perplexity  to  see  such  a throat  rising  out  of  the 
white  cravat  of  the  period.  It  sustained  a head  as 
massively  round  as  that  of  the  familiar  bust  of  the 
Emperor  Caracalla,  and  covered  with  the  same  dense 
sculptural  crop  of  curls.  The  young  man’s  hair  grew 
superbly ; it  was  such  hair  as  the  old  Romans  must 
have  had  when  they  walked  bareheaded  and  bronzed 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


129 


about  the  world.  It  made  a perfect  arch  over  his  low, 
clear  forehead,  and  prolonged  itself  on  cheek  and  chin 
in  a close,  crisp  beard,  strong  with  its  own  strength  and 
unstiffened  by  the  razor.  Neither  his  nose  nor  his 
mouth  was  delicate ; but  they  were  powerful,  shapely, 
and  manly.  His  complexion  was  of  a deep  glowing 
brown  which  no  emotion  would  alter,  and  his  large, 
lucid  eyes  seemed  to  stare  at  you  like  a pair  of  pol- 
ished agates.  He  was  of  middle  stature,  and  his  chest 
was  of  so  generous  a girth  that  you  half  expected  to 
hear  his  linen  crack  with  its  even  respirations.  And 
yet,  with  his  simple  human  smile,  he  looked  neither 
like  a young  bullock  nor  a gladiator.  His  powerful 
voice  was  the  least  bit  harsh,  and  his  large,  ceremo- 
nious reply  to  my  compliment  had  the  massive  sonority 
with  which  civil  speeches  must  have  been  uttered  in 
the  age  of  Augustus.  I had  always  considered  my 
god-daughter  a very  American  little  person,  in  all 
delightful  meanings  of  the  word,  and  I doubted  if 
this  sturdy  young  Latin  would  understand  the  trans- 
atlantic element  in  her  nature;  but,  evidently,  he 
would  make  her  a loyal  and  ardent  lover.  She  seemed 
to  me,  in  her  blond  prettiness,  so  tender,  so  appealing, 
so  bewitching,  that  it  was  impossible  to  believe  he  had 
not  more  thoughts  for  all  this  than  for  the  pretty  for- 
tune which  it  yet  bothered  me  to  believe  that  he  must, 
like  a good  Italian,  have  taken  the  exact  measure  of. 

6*  i 


130 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERI I. 


His  own  worldly  goods  consisted  of  the  paternal  estate, 
a villa  within  the  walls  of  Rome,  which  his  scanty 
funds  had  suffered  to  fall  into  sombre  disrepair.  “ It ’s 
the  Villa  she’s  in  love  with,  quite  as  much  as  the 
Count,”  said  her  mother.  “ She  dreams  of  converting 
the  Count ; that ’s  all  very  well.  But  she  dreams  of 
refurnishing  the  Villa!” 

The  upholsterers  were  turned  into  it,  I believe,  be- 
fore the  wedding,  and  there  was  a great  scrubbing  and 
sweeping  of  saloons  and  raking  and  weeding  of  alleys 
and  avenues.  Martha  made  frequent  visits  of  inspec- 
tion while  these  ceremonies  were  taking  place ; but  one 
day,  on  her  return,  she  came  into  my  little  studio  with 
an  air  of  amusing  horror.  She  had  found  them  scrap- 
ing  the  sarcophagus  in  the  great  ilex-walk ; divesting  it 
of  its  mossy  coat,  disincrusting  it  of  the  sacred  green 
mould  of  the  ages ! This  was  their  idea  of  making  the 
Villa  comfortable.  She  had  made  them  transport  it  to 
the  dampest  place  they  could  find ; for,  next  after  that 
slow-coming,  slow-going  smile  of  her  lover,  it  was  the 
rusty  complexion  of  his  patrimonial  marbles  that  she 
most  prized.  The  young  Count’s  conversion  proceeded 
less  rapidly,  and  indeed  I believe  that  his  betrothed 
brought  little  zeal  to  the  affair.  She  loved  him  so 
devoutly  that  she  believed  no  change  of  faith  could 
better  him,  and  she  would  have  been  willing  for  his 
sake  to  say  her  prayers  to  the  sacred  Bambino  at 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


131 


Epiphany.  But  he  had  the  good  taste  to  demand  no 
such  sacrifice,  and  I was  struck  with  the  happy  prom- 
ise of  a scene  of  which  I was  an  accidental  observer. 
It  was  at  St.  Peter’s,  one  Friday  afternoon,  during  the 
vesper  service  which  takes  place  in  the  chapel  of  the 
Choir.  I met  my  god-daughter  wandering  happily  on 
her  lover’s  arm,  her  mother  being  established  on  her 
camp-stool  near  the  chapel  door.  The  crowd  was  col- 
lected thereabouts,  and  the  body  of  the  church  was 
empty.  Now  and  then  the  high  voices  of  the  singers 
escaped  into  the  outer  vastness  and  melted  slowly 
away  in  the  incense-thickened  air.  Something  in  the 
young  girl’s  step  and  the  clasp  of  her  arm  in  her  lov- 
er’s told  me  that  her  contentment  was  perfect.  As  she 
threw  back  her  head  and  gazed  into  the  magnificent 
immensity  of  vault  and  dome,  I felt  that  she  was  in 
that  enviable  mood  in  which  all  consciousness  revolves 
on  a single  centre,  and  that  her  sense  of  the  splendors 
around  her  was  one  with  the  ecstasy  of  her  trust. 
They  stopped  before  that  sombre  group  of  confessionals 
wrhich  proclaims  so  portentously  the  world’s  sinfulness, 
and  Martha  seemed  to  make  some  almost  passionate 
protestation.  A few  minutes  later  I overtook  them. 

“ Don’t  you  agree  with  me,  dear  friend,”  said  the 
Count,  who  always  addressed  me  with  the  most  affec- 
tionate deference,  “ that  before  I marry  so  pure  and 
sweet  a_creature  as  this,  I ought  to  go  into  one  of 


132 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  YALERII. 


those  places  and  confess  every  sin  I ever  was  guilty 
of,  — every  evil  thought  and  impulse  and  desire  of  my 
grossly  evil  nature  ? ” 

Martha  looked  at  him,  half  in  deprecation,  half  in 
homage,  with  a look  which  seemed  at  once  to  insist 
that  her  lover  could  have  no  vices,  and  to  plead  that, 
if  he  had,  there  would  be  something  magnificent  in 
them.  “ Listen  to  him  ! ” she  said,  smiling.  “ The  list 
would  be  long,  and  if  you  waited  to  finish  it,  you 
would  be  late  for  the  wedding ! But  if  you  confess 
your  sins  for  me,  it ’s  only  fair  I should  confess  mine 
for  you.  Do  you  know  what  I have  been  saying  to 
Camillo  ? ” she  added,  turning  to  me  with  the  half-filial 
confidence  she  had  always  shown  me  and  with  a rosy 
glow  in  her  cheeks ; “ that  I want  to  do  something 
more  for  him  than  girls  commonly  do  for  their  lovers, 
— to  take  some  step,  to  run  some  risk,  to  break  some 
law,  even ! I ’m  willing  to  change  my  religion,  if  he 
bids  me.  There  are  moments  when  I ’m  terribly  tired 
of  simply  staring  at  Catholicism ; it  will  be  a relief  to 
come  into  a church  to  kneel.  That’s,  after  all,  what 
they  are  meant  for ! Therefore,  Camillo  mio,  if  it  casts 
a shade  across  your  heart  to  think  that  I ’m  a heretic, 
I ’ll  go  and  kneel  down  to  that  good  old  priest  who 
has  just  entered  the  confessional  yonder  and  say  to 
him, ' My  father,  I repent,  I abjure,  I believe.  Baptize 
me  in  the  only  faith.’  ” 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


133 


“ If  it’s  as  a compliment  to  the  Count/’'  I said,  “ it 
seems  to  me  he  ought  to  anticipate  it  by  turning  Prot- 
estant.” 

She  had  spoken  lightly  and  with  a smile,  and  yet 
w7ith  an  undertone  of  girlish  ardor.  The  young  man 
looked  at  her  with  a solemn,  puzzled  face  and  shook 
his  head.  “ Keep  your  religion,”  he  said.  “ Every  one 
his  own.  If  you  should  attempt  to  embrace  mine,  I ’m 
afraid  you  would  close  your  arms  about  a shadow. 
I ’m  a poor  Catholic ! I don’t  understand  all  these 
chants  and  ceremonies  and  splendors.  When  I was  a 
child  I never  could  learn  my  catechism.  My  poor  old 
confessor  long  ago  gave  me  up;  he  told  me  I was  a 
good  boy  but  a 'pagan  l You  must  not  be  a better 
Catholic  than  your  husband.  I don’t  understand  your 
religion  any  better,  but  I beg  you  not  to  change  it  for 
mine.  If  it  has  helped  to  make  you  what  you  are, 
it  must  be  good.”  And  taking  the  young  girl’s  hand, 
he  was  about  to  raise  it  affectionately  to  his  lips ; but 
suddenly  remembering  that  they  were  in  a place  unac- 
cordant  with  profane  passions,  he  lowered  it  with  a 
comical  smile.  “ Let  us  go ! ” he  murmured,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  forehead.  “ This  heavy  atmosphere 
of  St.  Peter’s  always  stupefies  me.” 

They  were  married  in  the  month  of  May,  and 
we  separated  for  the  summer,  the  Contessa’s  mamma 
going  to  illuminate  the  domestic  circle  in  New 


134 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


York  with  her  reflected  dignity.  When  I returned 
to  Eome  in  the  autumn,  I found  the  young  couple 
established  at  the  Villa  Valerio,  which  was  being 
gradually  reclaimed  from  its  antique  decay.  I begged 
that  the  hand  of  improvement  might  be  lightly  laid 
on  it,  for  as  an  unscrupulous  old  genre  painter,  with 
an  eye  to  “ subjects,”  I preferred  that  ruin  should 
accumulate.  My  god-daughter  was  quite  of  my  way 
of  thinking,  and  she  had  a capital  sense  of  the 
picturesque.  Advising  with  me  often  as  to  projected 
changes,  she  was  sometimes  more  conservative  than 
myself ; and  I more  than  once  smiled  at  her  archae- 
ological zeal,  and  declared  that  I believed  she  had 
married  the  Count  because  he  was  like  a statue  of 
the  Decadence.  I had  a constant  invitation  to  spend 
my  days  at  the  Villa,  and  my  easel  was  always 
planted  in  one  of  the  garden-walks.  I grew  to  have 
a painter’s  passion  for  the  place,  and  to  be  intimate 
with  every  tangled  shrub  and  twisted  tree,  every 
moss-coated  vase  and  mouldy  sarcophagus  and  sad, 
disfeatured  bust  of  those  grim  old  Eomans  who  could 
so  ill  afford  to  become  more  meagre-visaged.  The 
place  was  of  small  extent ; but  though  there  were 
many  other  villas  more  pretentious  and  splendid,  none 
seemed  to  me  more  deeply  picturesque,  more  roman- 
tically idle  and  untrimmed,  more  encumbered  with  pre- 
cious antique  rubbish,  and  haunted  with  half-historic 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


135 


echoes.  It  contained  an  old  ilex-walk  in  which  I 
used  religiously  to  spend  half  an  hour  every  day,  — 
half  an  hour  being,  I confess,  just  as  long  as  I could 
stay  without  beginning  to  sneeze.  The  trees  arched 
and  intertwisted  here  along  their  dusky  vista  in  the 
quaintest  symmetry ; and  as  it  was  exposed  un- 
interruptedly to  the  west,  the  low  evening  sun  used 
to  transfuse  it  with  a sort  of  golden  mist  and  play 
through  it  — over  leaves  and  knotty  boughs  and 
mossy  marbles  — with  a thousand  crimson  fingers. 
It  was  filled  with  disinterred  fragments  of  sculp- 
ture,— nameless  statues  and  noseless  heads  and  rough- 
hewn  sarcophagi,  which  made  it  jleliciously  solemn. 
The  statues  used  to  stand  there  in  the  perpetual 
twilight  like  conscious  things,  brooding  on  their  gath- 
ered memories.  I used  to  linger  about  them,  half 
expecting  they  would  speak  and  tell  me  their  stony 
secrets,  — whisper  heavily  the  whereabouts  of  their 
mouldering  fellows,  still  unrecovered  from  the  soil. 

My  god-daughter  was  idyllically  happy  and  abso- 
lutely in  love.  I was  obliged  to  confess  that  even 
rigid  rules  have  their  exceptions,  and  that  now  and 
then  an  Italian  count  is  an  honest  fellow.  Camillo 
was  one  to  the  core,  and  seemed  quite  content  to 
be  adored.  Their  life  was  a childlike  interchange  of 
caresses,  as  candid  and  unmeasured  as  those  of  a 
shepherd  and  shepherdess  in  a bucolic  poem.  To 


136 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERI I. 


stroll  in  the  ilex-walk  and  feel  her  husband’s  arm 
about  her  waist  and  his  shoulder  against  her  cheek  ; 
to  roll  cigarettes  for  him  while  he  puffed  them  in 
the  great  marble-paved  rotunda  in  the  centre  of  the 
house ; to  fill  his  glass  from  an  old  rusty  red  am- 
phora, — these  graceful  occupations  satisfied  the  young 
Countess. 

She  rode  with  him  sometimes  in  the  grassy  shadow 
of  aqueducts  and  tombs,  and  sometimes  suffered  him 
to  show  his  beautiful  wife  at  Eoman  dinners  and 
balls.  She  played  dominos  with  him  after  dinner, 
and  carried  out  in  a desultory  way  a daily  scheme 
of  reading  him  the  newspapers.  This  observance  was 
subject  to  fluctuations  caused  by  the  Count’s  invincible 
tendency  to  go  to  sleep,  — a failing  his  wife  never 
attempted  to  disguise  or  palliate.  She  would  sit  and 
brush  the  flies  from  him  while  he  lay  picturesquely 
snoozing,  and,  if  I ventured  near  him,  would  place 
her  finger  on  her  lips  and  whisper  that  she  thought 
her  husband  was  as  handsome  asleep  as  awake.  I 
confess  I often  felt  tempted  to  reply  to  her  that  he 
was  at  least  as  entertaining,  for  the  young  man’s 
happiness  had  not  multiplied  the  topics  on  which  he 
readily  conversed.  He  had  plenty  of  good  sense,  and 
his  opinions  on  practical  matters  were  always  worth 
having.  He  would  often  come  and  sit  near  me  while 
I worked  at  my  easel  and  offer  a friendly  criticism. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


137 


His  taste  was  a little  crude,  but  bis  eye  was  excellent, 
and  his  measurement  of  the  resemblance  between  some 
point  of  my  copy  and  the  original  as  trustworthy  as 
that  of  a mathematical  instrument.  But  he  seemed 
to  me  to  have  either  a strange  reserve  or  a strange 
simplicity ; to  be  fundamentally  unfurnished  with 
“ideas.”  He  had  no  beliefs  nor  hopes  nor  fears, — 
nothing  but  senses,  appetites,  and  serenely  luxurious 
tastes.  As  I watched  him  strolling  about  looking  at 
his  finger-nails,  I often  wondered  whether  he  had 
anything  that  could  properly  be  termed  a soul,  and 
whether  good  health  and  good-nature  were  not  the 
sum  of  his  advantages.  “ It ’s  lucky  he ’s  good- 
natured,”  I used  to  say  to  myself;  “for  if  he  were 
not,  there  is  nothing  in  his  conscience  to  keep  him 
in  order.  If  he  had  irritable  nerves  instead  of  quiet 
ones,  he  would  strangle  us  as  the  infant  Hercules 
strangled  the  poor  little  snakes.  He ’s  the  natural 
man ! Happily,  his  nature  is  gentle ; I can  mix  my 
colors  at  my  ease.”  I wondered  what  he  thought 
about  and  what  passed  through  his  mind  in  the  sunny 
leisure  which  seemed  to  shut  him  in  from  that  mod- 
ern work-a-day  world  of  which,  in  spite  of  my  passion 
for  bedaubing  old  panels  with  ineffective  portraiture 
of  mouldy  statues  against  screens  of  box,  I still  flat- 
tered myself  I was  a member.  I went  so  far  as  to 
believe  that  he  sometimes  withdrew  from  the  world 


138 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


altogether.  He  had  moods  in  which  his  conscious- 
ness seemed  so  remote  and  his  mind  so  irresponsive 
and  dumb,  that  nothing  but  a powerful  caress  or  a 
sudden  violence  was  likely  to  arouse  him.  Even  his 
lavish  tenderness  for  his  wife  had  a quality  which  I 
but  half  relished.  Whether  or  no  he  had  a soul 
himself,  he  seemed  not  to  suspect  that  she  had  one. 

I took  a godfatherly  interest  in  what  it  had  not  always 
seemed  to  me  crabbed  and  pedantic  to  talk  of  as  her 
moral  development.  I fondly  believed  her  to  be  a 
creature  susceptible  of  the  finer  spiritual  emotions. 
But  what  was  becoming  of  her  spiritual  life  in  this 
interminable  heathenish  honeymoon  ? Some  fine  day 

• 

she  would  find  herself  tired  of  the  Count’s  Icaux  ye\ix 
and  make  an  appeal  to  his  mind.  She  had,  to  my 
knowledge,  plans  of  study,  of  charity,  of  worthily  play- 
ing her  part  as  a Contessa  Valerio,  — a position  as  to 
which  the  family  records  furnished  the  most  inspiring 
examples.  But  if  the  Count  found  the  newspapers 
soporific,  I doubted  if  he  would  turn  Dante’s  pages 
very  fast  for  his  wife,  or  smile  with  much  zest  at 
the  anecdotes  of  Vasari.  How  could  he  advise  her, 
instruct  her,  sustain  her  ? And  if  she  became  a • 
mother,  how  could  he  share  her  responsibilities  ? He 
doubtless  would  assure  his  little  son  and  heir  a stout 
pair  of  arms  and  legs  and  a magnificent  crop  of  curls, 
and  sometimes  remove  his  cigarette  to  kiss  a dimpled 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


139 


spot;  but  I found  it  hard  to  picture  him  lending  his 
voice  to  teach  the  lusty  urchin  his  alphabet  or  his 
prayers,  or  the  rudiments  of  infant  virtue.  One  ac- 
complishment indeed  the  Count  possessed  which 
would  make  him  an  agreeable  playfellow:  he  carried 
in  his  pocket  a collection  of  precious  fragments  of 
antique  pavement,  — bits  of  porphyry  and  malachite 
and  lapis  and  basalt,  — disinterred  on  his  own  soil 
and  brilliantly  polished  by  use.  With  these  you 
might  see  him  occupied  by  the  half-hour,  playing  the 
simple  game  of  catch-and-toss,  ranging  them  in  a 
circle,  tossing  them  in  rotation,  and  catching  them  on 
the  back  of  his  hand.  His  skill  was  remarkable;  he 
would  send  a stone  five  feet  into  the  air,  and  pitch 
and  catch  and  transpose  the  rest  before  he  received 
it  again.  I watched  with  affectionate  jealousy  for 
the  signs  of  a dawning  sense,  on  Martha’s  part,  that 
she  was  the  least  bit  strangely  mated.  Once  or 
twice,  as  the  weeks  went  by,  I fancied  I read  them, 
and  that  she  looked  at  me  with  eyes  which  seemed 
to  remember  certain  old  talks  of  mine  in  which  I 
had  declared  — with  such  verity  as  you  please  — that 
a Frenchman,  an  Italian,  a Spaniard,  might  be  a very 
good  fellow,  but  that  he  never  really  respected  the 
woman  he  pretended  to  love.  For  the  most  part, 
however,  these  dusky  broodings  of  mine  spent  them- 
selves easily  in  the  charmed  atmosphere  of  our  ro- 


140 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  YALERII. 


mantic  home.  We  were  out  of  the  modern  world  and 
had  no  business  with  modern  scruples.  The  place 
was  so  bright,  so  still,  so  sacred  to  the  silent,  imper- 
turbable past,  that  drowsy  contentment  seemed  a nat- 
ural law ; and  sometimes  when,  as  I sat  at  my  work, 
I saw  my  companions  passing  arm-in-arm  across  the 
end  of  one  of  the  long-drawn  vistas,  and,  turning 
back  to  my  palette,  found  my  colors  dimmer  for  the 
radiant  vision,  I could  easily  believe  that  I was  some 
loyal  old  chronicler  of  a perfectly  poetical  legend. 

It  was  a help  to  ungrudging  feelings  that  the  Count, 
yielding  to  his  wife’s  urgency,  had  undertaken  a series 
of  systematic  excavations.  To  excavate  is  an  expen- 
sive luxury,  and  neither  Camillo  nor  his  latter  fore- 
fathers had  possessed  the  means  for  a disinterested 
pursuit  of  archaeology.  But  his  young  wife  had  per- 
suaded herself  that  the  much-trodden  soil  of  the  Villa 
was  as  full  of  buried  treasures  as  a bride-cake  of  plums, 
and  that  it  would  be  a pretty  compliment  to  the 
ancient  house  which  had  accepted  her  as  mistress,  to 
devote  a portion  of  her  dowry  to  bringing  its  mouldy 
honors  to  the  light.  I think  she  was  not  without  a 
fancy  that  this  liberal  process  would  help  to  disinfect 
her  Yankee  dollars  of  the  impertinent  odor  of  trade. 
She  took  learned  advice  on  the  subject,  and  was  soon 
ready  to  swear  to  you,  proceeding  from  irrefutable 
premises,  that  a colossal  gilt-bronze  Minerva  men- 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


141 


tioned  by  Strabo  was  placidly  awaiting  resurrection 
at  a point  twenty  rods  from  the  northwest  angle  of 
the  house.  She  had  a couple  of  grotesque  old  anti- 
quaries to  lunch,  whom  having  plied  with  unwonted 
potations,  she  walked  off  their  legs  in  the  grounds; 
and  though  they  agreed  on  nothing  else  in  the  world, 
they  individually  assured  her  that  properly  conducted 
researches  would  probably  yield  an  unequalled  harvest 
of  discoveries.  The  Count  had  been  not  only  indiffer- 
ent, but  even  averse,  to  the  scheme,  and  had  more  than 
once  arrested  his  wife’s  complacent  allusions  to  it  by 
an  unaccustomed  acerbity  of  tone.  “ Let  them  lie,  the 
poor  disinherited  gods,  the  Minerva,  the  Apollo,  the 
Ceres  you  are  so  sure  of  finding,”  he  said,  “ and  don’t 
break  their  rest.  What  do  you  want  of  them  ? We 
can’t  worship  them.  Would  you  put  them  on  pedes- 
tals to  stare  and  mock  at  them  ? If  you  can’t  believe 
in  them,  don’t  disturb  them.  Peace  be  with  them ! ” 
I remember  being  a good  deal  impressed  by  a vigorous 
confession  drawn  from  him  by  his  wife’s  playfully  de- 
claring in  answer  to  some  remonstrances  in  this  strain 
that  he  was  absolutely  superstitious.  “Yes,  by  Bac- 
chus, I am  superstitious ! ” he  cried.  “ Too  much  so, 
perhaps ! But  I ’m  an  old  Italian,  and  you  must  take 
me  as  you  find  me.  There  have  been  things  seen  and 
done  here  which  leave  strange  influences  behind ! 
They  don’t  touch  you,  doubtless,  who  come  of  another 


142 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


race.  But  they  touch  me,  often,  in  the  whisper  of 
the  leaves  and  the  odor  of  the  mouldy  soil  and  the 
blank  eyes  of  the  old  statues.  I can’t  hear  to  look 
the  statues  in  the  face.  I seem  to  see  other  strange 
eyes  in  the  empty  sockets,  and  I hardly  know  what 
they  say  to  me.  I call  the  poor  old  statues  ghosts. 
In  conscience,  we ’ve  enough  on  the  place  already, 
lurking  and  peering  in  every  shady  nook.  Don’t 
dig  up  any  more,  or  I won’t  answer  for  my  wits ! ” 
This  account  of  Camillo’s  sensibilities  was  too  fan- 
tastic not  to  seem  to  his  wife  almost  a joke ; and 
though  I imagined  there  was  more  in  it,  he  made  a 
joke  so  seldom  that  I should  have  been  sorry  to  cut 
short  the  poor  girl’s  smile.  With  her  smile  she  carried 
her  point,  and  in  a few  days  arrived  a kind  of  archaeo- 
logical detective,  with  a dozen  workmen  armed  with 
pickaxes  and  spades.  For  myself,  I was  secretly  vexed 
at  these  energetic  measures ; for,  though  fond  of  disin- 
terred statues,  I disliked  the  disinterment,  and  deplored 
the  profane  sounds  wThich  were  henceforth  to  jar  upon 
the  sleepy  stillness  of  the  gardens.  I especially  ob- 
jected to  the  personage  who  conducted  the  operations  ; 
an  ugly  little  dwarfish  man  who  seemed  altogether  a 
subterranean  genius,  an  earthy  gnome  of  the  under- 
world, and  went  prying  about  the  grounds  with  a ma- 
licious smile  which  suggested  more  delight  in  the 
money  the  Signor  Conte  was  going  to  bury  than  in  the 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


143 


expected  marbles  and  bronzes.  When  the  first  sod 
had  been  turned,  the  Count’s  mood  seemed  to  alter, 
and  his  curiosity  got  the  better  of  his  scruples.  He 
sniffed  delightedly  the  odor  of  the  humid  earth,  and 
stood  watching  the  workmen,  as  they  struck  constantly 
deeper,  with  a kindling  wonder  in  his  eyes.  When- 
ever a pickaxe  rang  against  a stone  he  would  utter  a 
sharp  cry,  and  be  deterred  from  jumping  into  the 
trench  only  by  the  little  explorer’s  assurance  that  it 
was  a false  alarm.  The  near  prospect  of  discoveries 
seemed  to  act  upon  his  nerves,  and  I met  him  more 
than  once  strolling  restlessly  among  his  cedarn  alleys, 
as  if  at  last  he  had  fallen  a thinking.  He  took  me  by 
the  arm  and  made  me  walk  with  him,  and  discoursed 
ardently  of  the  chance  of  a “ find.”  I rather  marvelled 
at  his  sudden  zeal,  and  wondered  whether  he  had  an 
eye  to  the-  past  or  to  the  future,  — to  the  beauty  of  pos- 
sible Minervas  and  Apollos  or  to  their  market  value. 
Whenever  the  Count  would  come  and  denounce  his 
little  army  of  spadesmen  for  a set  of  loitering  vaga- 
bonds, the  little  explorer  would  glance  at  me  with  a 
sarcastic  twinkle  which  seemed  to  hint  that  excava- 
tions were  a snare.  We  were  kept  some  time  in  sus- 
pense, for  several  false  beginnings  were  made.  The 
earth  was  probed  in  the  wrong  places.  The  Count 
began  to  be  discouraged  and  to  prolong  his  abbreviated 
siesta.  But  the  little  expert,  who  had  his  own  ideas, 


144 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERI I. 


shrewdly  continued  his  labors;  and  as  I sat  at  my 
easel  I heard  the  spades  ringing  against  the  dislodged 
stones.  Now  and  then  I would  pause,  with  an  un- 
controllable acceleration  of  my  heart-beats.  “It  may 
be,”  I would  say,  “that  some  marble  masterpiece  is 
stirring  there  beneath  its  lightening  weight  of  earth  ! 
There  are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  . . . . ! I may  be 
summoned  to  welcome  another  Antinous  back  to  fame, 
— a Yenus,  a Faun,  an  Augustus  ! ” 

One  morning  it  seemed  to  me  that  I had  been  hear- 
ing for  half  an  hour  a livelier  movement  of  voices  than 
usual;  but  as  I was  preoccupied  with  a puzzling  bit 
of  work,  I made  no  inquiries.  Suddenly  a shadow  fell 
across  my  canvas,  and  I turned  round.  The  little  ex- 
plorer stood  beside  me,  with  a glittering  eye,  cap  in 
hand,  his  forehead  bathed  in  perspiration.  Eesting  in 
the  hollow  of  his  arm  was  an  earth-stained  fragment 
of  marble.  In  answer  to  my  questioning  glance  he 
held  it  up  to  me,  and  I saw  it  was  a woman’s  shapely 
hand.  “ Come ! ” he  simply  said,  and  led  the  way  to 
the  excavation.  The  workmen  were  so  closely  gath- 
ered round  the  open  trench  that  I saw  nothing  till  he 
made  them  divide.  Then,  full  in  the  sun  and  flashing 
it  back,  almost,  in  spite  of  her  dusky  incrustations,  I 
beheld,  propped  up  with  stones  against  a heap  of  earth, 
a majestic  marble  image.  She  seemed  to  me  almost 
colossal,  though  I afterwards  perceived  that  she  was  of 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALEttll. 


145 


perfect  human  proportions.  My  pulses  began  to  throb, 
for  I felt  she  was  something  great,  and  that  it  was 
great  to  be  among  the  first  to  know  her.  Her  marvel- 
lous beauty  gave  her  an  almost  human  look,  and  her 
absent  eyes  seemed  to  wonder  back  at  us.  She  was 
amply  draped,  so  that  I saw  that  she  was  not  a Venus. 
“ She  ’s  a J uno,”  said  the  excavator,  decisively ; and 
she  seemed  indeed  an  embodiment  of  celestial  suprem- 
acy and  repose.  Her  beautiful  head,  bound  with  a 
single  band,  could  have  bent  only  to  give  the  nod  of 
command ; her  eyes  looked  straight  before  her ; her 
mouth  was  implacably  grave ; one  hand,  outstretched, 
appeared  to  have  held  a kind  of  imperial  wand,  the 
arm  from  which  the  other  had  been  broken  hung  at 
her  side  with  the  most  classical  majesty.  The  work- 
manship was  of  the  rarest  finish ; and  though  perhaps 
there  was  a sort  of  vaguely  modern  attempt  at  charac- 
ter in  her  expression,  she  was  wrought,  as  a whole,  in 
the  large  and  simple  manner  of  the  great  Greek  period. 
She  was  a masterpiece  of  skill  and  a marvel  of  preser- 
vation. “ Does  the  Count  know  ? ” I soon  asked,  for  I 
had  a guilty  sense  that  our  eyes  were  taking  something 
from  her. 

“ The  Signor  Conte  is  at  his  siesta,”  said  the  ex- 
plorer, with  his  sceptical  grin.  “We  don’t  like  to 
disturb  him.” 

“Here  he  comes!”  cried  one  of  the  workmen,  and 


146 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


we  made  way  for  him.  Ilis  siesta  had  evidently  been 
suddenly  broken,  for  his  face  was  flushed  and  his 
hair  disordered. 

“ Ah,  my  dream  — my  dream  was  right,  then  ! ” he 
cried,  and  stood  staring  at  the  image. 

“ What  was  your  dream  ? ” I asked,  as  his  fac,e 
seemed  to  betray  more  dismay  than  delight. 

“ That  they’d  found  a Juno;  and  that  she  rose 
and  came  and  laid  her  marble  hand  on  mine.  Eh  ? ” 
said  the  Count,  excitedly. 

A kind  of  awe-struck,  guttural  a-ah!  burst  from 
the  listening  workmen. 

“ This  is  the  hand  ! ” said  the  little  explorer,  hold- 
ing up  his  perfect  fragment.  "I’ve  had  it  this  half- 
hour,  so  it  can’t  have  touched  you.” 

“ But  you  ’re  apparently  right  as  to  her  being  a 
Juno,”  I said.  “ Admire  her  at  your  leisure.”  And 
I turned  away;  for  if  the  Count  was  superstitious,  I 
wished  to  leave  him  free  to  relieve  himself.  I re- 
paired to  the  house  to  carry  the  news  to  my  god^- 
daughter,  whom  I found  slumbering  — dreamlessly, 
it  appeared  — over  a great  archaeological  octavo. 
“ They ’ve  touched  bottom,”  I said.  “ They ’ve  found 
a Juno  of  Praxiteles  at  the  very  least ! ” She  dropped 
her  octavo,  and  rang  for  a parasol.  I described  the 
statue,  but  not  graphically,  I presume,  for  Martha 
gave  a little  sarcastic  grimace. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


147 


“ A long,  fluted  peplum  ? ” she  said.  “ How  very 
odd  ! I don’t  believe  she ’s  beautiful.” 

“ She ’s  beautiful  enough,  Jiglioccia  mia”  I answered, 
“ to  make  you  jealous.” 

We  found  the  Count  standing  before  the  resurgent 
goddess  in  fixed  contemplation,  with  folded  arms.  He 
seemed  to  have  recovered  from  the  irritation  of  his 
dream,  but  I thought  his  face  betrayed  a still  deeper 
emotion.  He  was  pale,  and  gave  no  response  as  his 
wife  caressingly  clasped  his  arm.  I ’m  not  sure, 
however,  that  his  wife’s  attitude  was  not  a livelier 
tribute  to  the  perfection  of  the  image.  She  had  been 
laughing  at  my  rhapsody  as  we  walked  from  the 
house,  and  I had  bethought  myself  of  a statement 
I had  somewhere  seen,  that  women  lacked  the  per- 
ception of  the  purest  beauty.  Martha,  however, 
seemed  slowly  to  measure  our  Juno’s  infinite  state- 
liness. She  gazed  a long  time  silently,  leaning  against 
her  husband,  and  then  stepped  half  timidly  down  on 
the  stones  which  formed  a rough  base  for  the  figure. 
She  laid  her  two  rosy,  ungloved  hands  upon  the  stony 
fingers  of  the  goddess,  and  remained  for  some  mo- 
ments pressing  them  in  her  warm  grasp,  and  fixing 
her  living  eyes  upon  the  inexpressive  brow.  When 
she  turned  round  her  eyes  were  bright  with  an  admir- 
ing tear,  — a tear  which  her  husband  was  too  deeply 
absorbed  to  notice.  He  had  apparently  given  orders 


148 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERI I. 


that  the  workmen  should  be  treated  to  a cask  of  wine, 
in  honor  of  their  discovery.  It  was  now  brought  and 
opened  on  the  spot,  and  the  little  explorer,  having 
drawn  the  first  glass,  stepped  forward,  hat  in  hand,  and 
obsequiously  presented  it  to  the  Countess.  She  only 
moistened  her  lips  with  it  and  passed  it  to  her  hus- 
band. He  raised  it  mechanically  to  his  own  ; then 
.suddenly  he  stopped,  held  it  a moment  aloft,  and 
poured  it  out  slowly  and  solemnly  at  the  feet  of  the 
Juno. 

“ Why,  it ’s  a libation  ! ” I cried.  He  made  no  an- 
swer, and  walked  slowly  away. 

There  was  no  more  work  done  that  day.  The  labor- 
ers lay  on  the  grass,  gazing  with  the  native  Eoman 
relish  of  a fine  piece  of  sculpture,  but  wasting  no  wine 
in  pagan  ceremonies.  In  the  evening  the  Count  paid 
the  Juno  another  visit,  and  gave  orders  that  on  the 
morrow^  she  should  be  transferred  to  the  Casino.  The 
Casino  was  a deserted  garden-house,  built  in  not  un- 
graceful imitation  of  an  Ionic  temple,  in  which  Camil- 
lo’s  ancestors  must  often  have  assembled  to  drink  cool 
syrups  from  Venetian  glasses,  and  listen  to  learned 
madrigals.  It  contained  several  dusty  fragments  of 
antique  sculpture,  and  it  was  spacious  enough  to  en- 
. close  that  richer  collection  of  which  I began  fondly  to 
regard  the  Juno  as  but  the  nucleus.  Here,  with  short 
delay,  this  fine  creature  was  placed,  serenely  upright. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


149 


a reversed  funereal  cippus  forming  a sufficiently  solid 
pedestal.  The  little  explorer,  who  seemed  an  expert 
in  all  the  offices  of  restoration,  rubbed  her  and  scraped 
her  with  mysterious  art,  removed  her  earthy  stains, 
and  doubled  the  lustre  of  her  beauty.  Her  mellow 
substance  seemed  to  glow  with  a kind  of  renascent 
purity  and  bloom,  and,  but  for  her  broken  hand,  you 
might  have  fancied  she  had  just  received  the  last 
stroke  of  the  chisel.  Her  fame  remained  no  secret. 
Within  two  or  three  days  half  a dozen  inquisitive  co- 
noscenti posted  out  to  obtain  sight  of  her.  I happened 
to  be  present  when  the  first  of  these  gentlemen  (a  Ger- 
man in  blue  spectacles,  with  a portfolio  under  his  arm) 
presented  himself  at  the  Villa.  The  Count,  hearing 
his  voice  at  the  door,  came  forward  and  eyed  him  cold- 
ly from  head  to  foot. 

“Your  new  Juno,  Signor  Conte/’  began  the  Ger- 
man, “is,  in  my  opinion,  much  more  likely  to  be  a 
certain  Proserpine  — ” 

“I’ve  neither  a Juno  nor  a Proserpine  to  discuss 
with  you,”  said  the  Count,  curtly.  “ You  ’re  misin- 
formed.” 

“ You ’ve  dug  up  no  statue  ? ” cried  the  German. 
“ What  a scandalous  hoax  ! ” 

“ Hone  worthy  of  your  learned  attention.  I ’m 
sorry  you  should  have  the  trouble  of  carrying  your 
little  note-book  so  far.”  The  Count  had  suddenly 
become  witty ! 


150 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


“ But  you  Ve  something,  surely.  The  rumor  is 
running  through  Borne.” 

“ The  rumor  be  damned  ! ” cried  the  Count,  savagely. 
“ I Ve  nothing , — do  you  understand  ? Be  so  good 
as  to  say  so  to  your  friends.” 

The  answer  was  explicit,  and  the  poor  archaeologist 
departed,  tossing  his  flaxen  mane.  But  I pitied  him, 
and  ventured  to  remonstrate  with  the  Count.  “ She 
might  as  well  be  still  in  the  earth,  if  no  one  is  to 
see  her,”  I said. 

“ I ’m  to  see  her : that ’s  enough  ! ” he  answered 
with  the  same  unnatural  harshness.  Then,  in  a mo- 
ment, as  he  caught  me  eying  him  askance  in  troubled 
surprise,  “I  hated  his  great  portfolio.  He  was  going 
to  make  some  hideous  drawing  of  her.” 

aAh,  that  touches  me,”  I said.  “I  too  have  been 
planning  to  make  a little  sketch.” 

He  was  silent  for  some  moments,  after  which  he 
turned  and  grasped  my  arm,  with  less  irritation,  but 
with  extraordinary  gravity.  “ Go  in  there  towards 
twilight,”  he  said,  “ and  sit  for  an  hour  and  look  at 
her.  I think  you  ’ll  give  up  your  sketch.  If  you 
don’t,  my  good  old  friend,  — you  ’re  welcome  ! ” 

I followed  his  advice,  and,  as  a friend,  I gave  up 
my  sketch.  But  an  artist  is  an  artist,  and  I secretly 
longed  to  attempt  one.  Orders  strictly  in  accordance 
with  the  Count’s  reply  to  our  German  friend  were 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


151 


given  to  the  servants,  who,  with  an  easy  Italian  con- 
science and  a gracious  Italian  persuasiveness,  assured 
all  subsequent  inquirers  that  they  had  been  regretta- 
bly misinformed.  I have  no  doubt,  indeed,  that,  in 
default  of  larger  opportunity,  they  made  condolence 
remunerative.  Further  excavation  was,  for  the  present, 
suspended,  as  implying  an  affront  to  the  incompar- 
able Juno.  The  workmen  departed,  but  the  little 
explorer  still  haunted  the  premises  and  sounded  the 
soil  for  his  own  entertainment.  One  day  he  came  to 
me  with  his  usual  ambiguous  grimace.  “ The  beau- 
tiful hand  of  the  Juno,”  he  murmured;  “what  has 
become  of  it  ? ” 

“ I Ve  not  seen  it  since  you  called  me  to  look  at 
her.  I remember  when  I went  away  it  wras  lying 
on  the  grass  near  the  excavation.” 

a 

“Where  I placed  it  myself!  After  that  it  disap- 
peared. Ecco ! ” 

“Do  you  suspect  one  of  your  workmen?  Such  a 
fragment  as  that  would  bring  more  scudi  than  most 
of  them  ever  looked  at.” 

“ Some,  perhaps,  are  greater  thieves  than  the  others. 
But  if  I were  to  call  up  the  worst  of  them  and  accuse 
him,  the  Count  would  interfere.” 

“ He  must  value  that  beautiful  hand,  nevertheless.” 

The  little  expert  in  disinterment  looked  about  him 
and  winked.  “ He  values  it  so  much  that  he  himself 


152 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERI I. 


purloined  it.  That ’s  my  belief,  and  I think  that  the 
less  we  say  about  it  the  better.” 

“ Purloined  it,  my  dear  sir?  After  all,  it's  his 
own  property.” 

“ Not  so  much  as  that  comes  to  ! So  beautiful  a 
creature  is  more  or  less  the  property  of  every  one ; 
we’ve  all  a right  to  look  at  her.  But  the  Count 
treats  her  as  if  she  were  a sacro-sanct  image  of  the 
Madonna.  He  keeps  her  under  lock  and  key,  and 
pays  her  solitary  visits.  What  does  he  do,  after  all  ? 
When  a beautiful  woman  is  in  stone,  all  he  can  do 
is  to  look  at  her.  And  what  does  he  do  with  that 
precious  hand  ? He  keeps  it  in  a silver  box ; he  has 
made  a relic  of  it ! ” And  this  cynical  personage 
began  to  chuckle  grotesquely  and  walked  away. 

He  left  me  musing  uncomfortably,  and  wondering 
what  the  deuce  he  meant.  The  Count  certainly 
chose  to  make  a mystery  of  the  Juno,  but  this 
seemed  a natural  incident  of  the  first  rapture  of  pos- 
session. I was  willing  to  wait  for  a free  access  to 
her,  and  in  the  mean  time  I was  glad  to  find  that 
there  was  a limit  to  his  constitutional  apathy.  But 
as  the  days  elapsed  I began  to  be  conscious  that  his 
enjoyment  was  not  communicative,  but  strangely  cold 
and  shy  and  sombre.  That  he  should  admire  a mar- 
ble goddess  was  no  reason  for  his  despising  mankind; 
yet  he  really  seemed  to  be  making  invidious  com- 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  YALERII. 


153 


parisons  between  us.  From  this  untender  proscription 
his  charming  wife  was  not  excepted.  At  moments 
when  I tried  to  persuade  myself  that  he  was  neither 
worse  nor  better  company  than  usual,  her  face  con- 
demned my  optimism.  She  said  nothing,  but  she  wore 
a constant  look  of  pathetic  perplexity.  She  sat  at  times 
with  her  eyes  fixedrtm^him  with  a kind  of  imploring 
curiosity,  as  if  pitying  surprise  held  resentment  yet 
awhile  in  check.  What  passed  between  them  in 
private,  I had,  of  course,  no  warrant  to  inquire.  Noth- 
ing, I imagined,  — and  that  was  the  misery!  It  was 
part  of  the  misery,  too,  that  he  seemed  impenetrable 
to  these  mute  glances,  and  looked  over  her  head 
with  an  air  of  superb  abstraction.  Occasionally  he 
noticed  me  looking  at  him  in  urgent  deprecation, 
and  then  for  a moment  his  heavy  eye  would  sparkle, 
half,  as  it  seemed,  in  defiant  irony  and  half  with  a 
strangely  stifled  impulse  to  justify  himself.  But  from 
his  wife  he  kept  his  face  inexorably  averted;  and 
when  she  approached  him  with  some  persuasive  ca- 
ress, he  received  it  with  an  ill-concealed  shudder.  I 
inwardly  protested  and  raged.  I grew  to  hate  the 
Count  and  everything  that  belonged  to  him.  “ I was 
a thousand  times  right,”  I cried  ; “ an  Italian  count 
may  be  mighty  fine,  but  he  won’t  wear ! Give  us 
some  wholesome  young  fellow  of  our  own  blood, 
■who’ll  play  us  none  of  these  dusky  old-world  tricks. 


154 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  YALERII. 


Painter  as  I am,  I ’ll  never  recommend  a picturesque 
husband ! ” I lost  my  pleasure  in  the  Villa,  in  the 
purple  shadows  and  glowing  lights,  the  mossy  mar- 
bles and  the  long-trailing  profile  of  the  Alban  Hills. 
My  painting  stood  still;  everything  looked  ugly.  I 
sat  and  fumbled  with  my  palette,  and  seemed  to  be 
mixing  mud  with  my  colors.  My  head  was  stuffed 
with  dismal  thoughts ; an  intolerable  weight  seemed 
to  lie  upon  my  heart.  The  Count  became,  to  my 
imagination,  a dark  efflorescence  of  the  evil  germs 
which  history  had  implanted  in  his  line.  No  wonder 
he  was  foredoomed  to  be  cruel.  Was  not  cruelty  a 
tradition  in  his  race,  and  crime  an  example  ? The 
unholy  passions  of  his  forefathers  stirred  blindly  in 
his  untaught  nature  and  clamored  dumbly  for  an 
issue.  What  a heavy  heritage  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I 
reckoned  it  up  in  my  melancholy  musings,  the  Count’s 
interminable  ancestry ! Back  to  the  profligate  revival 
of  arts  and  vices,  — back  to  the  bloody  medley  of 
mediaeval  wars,  — back  through  the  long,  fitfully  glar- 
ing dusk  of  the  early  ages  to  its  ponderous  origin  in 
the  solid  Eoman  state,  — back  through  all  the  dark- 
ness of  history  it  seemed  to  stretch,  losing  every 
feeblest  claim  on  my  sympathies  as  it  went.  Such  a 
record  was  in  itself  a curse;  and  my  poor  gill  had 
expected  it  to  sit  as  lightly  and  gratefully  on  her 
consciousness  as  her  feather  on  her  hat ! I have 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


155 


little  idea  how  long  this  painful  situation  lasted.  It 
seemed  the  longer  from  my  god-daughter’s  continued 
reserve,  and  my  inability  to  offer  her  a word  of  con- 
solation. A sensitive  woman,  disappointed  in  mar- 
riage, exhausts  her  own  ingenuity  before  she  takes 
counsel.  The  Count’s  preoccupations,  whatever  they 
were,  made  him  increasingly  restless;  he  came  and 
went  at  random,  with  nervous  abruptness;  he  took 
long  rides  alone,  and,  as  I inferred,  rarely  went  through 
the  form  of  excusing  himself  to  his  wife ; and  still,  as 
time  went  on,  he  came  no  nearer  explaining  his  mys- 
tery. With  the  lapse  of  time,  however,  I confess  that 
my  apprehensions  began  to  be  tempered  with  pity. 
If  I had  expected  to  see  him  propitiate  his  urgent 
ancestry  by  a crime,  now  that  his  native  rectitude 
seemed  resolute  to  deny  them  this  satisfaction,  I felt 
a sort  of  grudging  gratitude.  A man  couldn’t  be  so 
gratuitously  sombre  without  being  unhappy.  He  had 
always  treated  me  with  that  antique  deference  to 
a grizzled  beard  for  which  elderly  men  reserve  the 
flower  of  their  general  tenderness  for  waning  fashions, 
and  I thought  it  possible  he  might  suffer  me  to  lay 
a healing  hand  upon  his  trouble.  One  evening,  when 
I had  taken  leave  of  my  god-daugliter  and  given  her 
my  useless  blessing  in  a silent  kiss,  I came  out  and 
found  the  Count  sitting  in  the  garden  in  the  mild 
starlight,  and  staring  at  a mouldy  Hermes,  nestling 


156 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


in  a clump  of  oleander.  I sat  down  by  him  and  in- 
formed him  roundly  that  his  conduct  needed  an  expla- 
nation. He  half  turned  his  head,  and  his  dark  pupil 
gleamed  an  instant. 

“ I understand,”  he  said,  “ you  think  me  crazy  ! ” 
And  he  tapped  his  forehead. 

“ No,  not  crazy,  but  unhappy.  And  if  unhappiness 
runs  its  course  too  freely,  of  course,  our  poor  wits  are 
sorely  tried.” 

He  was  silent  awhile,  and  then,  “ I 'm  not  un- 
happy !”  he  cried  abruptly.  “ I 'm  prodigiously  happy. 
You  would  n't  believe  the  satisfaction  I take  in  sit- 
ting here  and  staring  at  that  old  weather-worn  Hermes. 
Formerly  I used  to  be  afraid  of  him : his  frown  used 
to  remind  me  of  a little  bushy-browed  old  priest  who 
taught  me  Latin  and  looked  at  me  terribly  over  the 
book  when  I stumbled  in  my  Yirgil.  But  now  it 
seems  to  me  the  friendliest,  j oiliest  thing  in  the 
world,  and  suggests  the  most  delightful  images.  He 
stood  pouting  his  great  lips  in  some  old  Boman's 
garden  two  thousand  years  ago.  He  saw  the  san- 
dalled feet  treading  the  alleys  and  the  rose-crowned 
heads  bending  over  the  wine ; he  knew  the  old  feasts 
and  the  old  worship,  the  old  Bomans  and  the  old  gods. 
As  I sit  here  he  speaks  to  me,  in  his  own  dumb  way, 
and  describes  it  all ! No,  no,  my  friend,  I 'in  the 
happiest  of  men  ! ” 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


157 


I had  denied  that  I thought  he  was  crazy,  but  I 
suddenly  began  to  suspect  it,  for  I found  nothing  re- 
assuring in  this  singular  rhapsody.  The  Hermes,  for 
a wonder,  had  kept  his  nose ; and  when  I reflected 
that  my  dear  Countess  was  being  neglected  for  this 
senseless  pagan  block,  I secretly  promised  myself  to 
come  the  next  day  with  a hammer  and  deal  him 
such  a lusty  blow  as  would  make  him  too  ridiculous 
for  a sentimental  tete-a-tete.  Meanwhile,  however,  the 
Count’s  infatuation  was  no  laughing  matter,  and  I ex- 
pressed my  sincerest  conviction  when  I said,  after  a 
pause,  that  I should  recommend  him  to  see  either  a 
priest  or  a physician. 

He  burst  into  uproarious  laughter.  “ A priest ! 
What  should  I do  with  a priest,  or  he  with  me  ? I 
never  loved  them,  and  I feel  less  like  beginning  than 
ever.  A priest,  my  dear  friend,”  he  repeated,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  my  arm,  “ don’t  set  a priest  at 
me,  if  you  value  his  sanity ! My  confession  would 
frighten  the  poor  man  out  of  his  wits.  As  for  a doc- 
tor, I never  was  better  in  my  life ; and  unless,”  he 
added  abruptly,  rising,  and  eying  me  askance,  “you 
want  to  poison  me,  in  Christian  charity  I advise  you 
to  leave  me  alone.” 

Decidedly,  the  Count  was  unsound,  and  I had  no 
heart,  for  some  days,  to  go  back  to  the  Villa.  How 
should  I treat  him,  what  stand  should  I take,  what 


158 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


course  did  Martha’s  happiness  and  dignity  demand? 
I wandered  about  Borne,  revolving  these  questions, 
and  one  afternoon  found  myself  in  the  Pantheon.  A 
light  spring  shower  had  begun  to  fall,  and  I hurried 
for  refuge  into  the  great  temple  which  its  Christian 
altars  have  but  half  converted  into  a church.  No 
Boman  monument  retains  a deeper  impress  of  ancient 
life,  or  verifies  more  forcibly  those  prodigious  beliefs 
which  we  are  apt  to  regard  as  dim  fables.  The  huge 
dusky  dome  seems  to  the  spiritual  ear  to  hold  a 
vague  reverberation  of  pagan  worship,  as  a gathered 
shell  holds  the  rumor  of  the  sea.  Three  or  four  per- 
sons were  scattered  before  the  various  altars ; another 
stood  near  the  centre,  beneath  the  aperture  in  the 
dome.  As  I drew  near  I perceived  this  was  the 
Count.  He  was  planted  with  his  hands  behind  him, 
looking  up  first  at  the  heavy  rain-.clouds,  as  they 
crossed  the  great  bull’s-eye,  and  then  down  at  the 
besprinkled  circle  on  the  pavement.  In  those  days 
the  pavement  was  rugged  and  cracked  and  magnifi- 
cently old,  and  this  ample  space,  in  free  communion 
with  the  weather,  had  become  as  mouldy  and  mossy 
and  verdant  as  a strip  of  garden  soil.  A tender 
herbage  had  sprung  up  in  the  crevices  of  the  slabs, 
and  the  little  microscopic  shoots  were  twinkling  in 
the  rain.  This  great  weather-current,  through  the  un- 
capped vault,  deadens  most  effectively  the  customary 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


159 


odors  of  incense  and  tallow,  and  transports  one  to 
a faith  that  was  on  friendly  terms  with  nature.  It 
seemed  to  have  performed  this  office  for  the  Count ; 
his  face  wore  an  indefinable  expression  of  ecstasy, 
and  he  was  so  rapt  in  contemplation  that  it  was 
some  time  before  he  noticed  me.  The  sun  was  strug- 
gling through  the  clouds  without,  and  yet  a thin  rain 
continued  to  fall  and  came  drifting  down  into  our 
gloomy  enclosure  in  a sort  of  illuminated  drizzle. 
The  Count  watched  it  with  the  fascinated  stare  of  a 
child  watching  a fountain,  and  then  turned  away, 
pressing  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  walked  over  to 
one  of  the  ornamental  altars.  Here  he  again  stood 
staring,  but  in  a moment  wheeled  about  and  returned 
to  his  former  place.  Just  then  he  recognized  me, 
and  perceived,  I suppose,  the  puzzled  gaze  I must 
have  fixed  on  him.  He  saluted  me  frankly  with  his 
hand,  and  at  last  came  toward  me.  I fancied  that  he 
was  in  a kind  of  nervous  tremor  and  was  trying  to 
appear  calm. 

“This  is  the  best  place  in  Home,”  he  murmured. 
“ It ’s  worth  fifty  St.  Peters’.  But  do  you  know  I 
never  came  here  till  the  other  day  ? I left  it  to  the 
forestieri.  They  go  about  with  their  red  books,  and 
read  about  this  and  that,  and  think  they  know  it. 
Ah!  you  must  feel  it,  — feel  the  beauty  and  fitness 
of  that  great  open  skylight.  Now,  only  the  wind  and 


160 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERIL 


the  rain,  the  sun  and  the  cold,  come  down ; but  of  old 
— of  old  ” — and  he  touched  my  arm  and  gave  me  a 
strange  smile  — “the  pagan  gods  and  goddesses  used 
to  come  sailing  through  it  and  take  their  places  at 
their  altars.  What  a procession,  when  the  eyes  of 
faith  could  see  it ! Those  are  the  things  they  have 
given  us  instead  ! ” And  he  gave  a pitiful  shrug.  “ I 
should  like  to  pull  down  their  pictures,  overturn  their 
candlesticks,  and  poison  their  holy-water!” 

“ My  dear  Count,”  I said  gently,  “ you  should  tol- 
erate people’s  honest  beliefs.  Would  you  renew  the 
Inquisition,  and  in  the  interest  of  Jupiter  and  Mer- 
cury ? ” 

“ People  would  n’t  tolerate  my  belief,  if  they  guessed 
it ! ” he  cried.  “ There ’s  been  a great  talk  about  the 
pagan  persecutions;  but  the  Christians  persecuted  as 
well,  and  the  old  gods  were  worshipped  in  caves  and 
woods  as  well  as  the  new.  And  none  the  worse  for 
that ! It  was  in  caves  and  woods  and  streams,  in  earth 
and  air  and  water,  they  dwelt.  And  there  — and  here, 
too,  in  spite  of  all  your  Christian  lustrations  — a son 
of  old  Italy  may  find  them  still ! ” 

He  had  said  more  than  he  meant,  and  his  mask  had 
fallen.  I looked  at  him  hard,  and  felt  a sudden  out- 
gush  of  the  compassion  we  always  feel  for  a creature 
irresponsibly  excited.  I seemed  to  touch  the  source 
of  his  trouble,  and  my  relief  was  great,  for  my  dis- 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


161 


covery  made  me  feel  like  bursting  into  laughter.  But 
I contented  myself  with  smiling  benignantly.  He 
looked  back  at  me  suspiciously,  as  if  to  judge  how  far 
he  had  betrayed  himself ; and  in  his  glance  I read, 
somehow,  that  he  had  a conscience  we  could  take  hold 
of.  In  my  gratitude,  I was  ready  to  thank  any  gods 
he  pleased.  “ Take  care,  take  care/’  I said,  “ you  ’re 
saying  things  which  if  the  sacristan  there  were  to  hear 
and  report  — !”  And  I passed  my  hand  through  his 
arm  and  led  him  away. 

I was  startled  and  shocked,  but  I was  also  amused 
and  comforted.  The  Count  had  suddenly  become  for 
me  a delightfully  curious  phenomenon,  and  I passed 
the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditating  on  the  strange  in- 
effaceability  of  race-characteristics.  A sturdy  young 
Latin  I had  called  Camillo;  sturdier,  indeed,  than  I 
had  dreamed  him  ! Discretion  was  now  misplaced,  and 
on  the  morrow  I spoke  to  my  god-daughter.  She  had 
lately  been  hoping,  I think,  that  I would  help  her  to 
unburden  her  heart,  for  she  immediately  gave  wray  to 
tears  and  confessed  that  she  was  miserable.  “ At  first,” 
she  said,  “ I thought  it  was  all  fancy,  and  not  his  ten- 
derness that  was  growing  less,  but  my  exactions  that 
were  growing  greater.  But  suddenly  it  settled  upon 
me  like  a mortal  chill,  — the  conviction  that  he  had 
ceased  to  care  for  me,  that  something  had  come  be- 
tween us.  And  the  puzzling  thing  has  been  the  want 


162 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


of  possible  cause  in  my  own  conduct,  or  of  any  sign  that 
there  is  another  woman  in  the  case.  I have  racked  my 
brain  to  discover  what  I had  said  or  done  or  thought 
to  displease  him  ! And  yet  he  goes  about  like  a man 
too  deeply  injured  to  complain.  He  has  never  uttered 
a harsh  word  or  given  me  a reproachful  look.  He  has 
simply  renounced  me.  I have  dropped  out  of  his 
life.” 

She  spoke  with  such  an  appealing  tremor  in  her 
voice  that  I was  on  the  point  of  telling  her  that  I had 
guessed  the  riddle,  and  that  this  was  half  the  battle. 
But  I was  afraid  of  her  incredulity.  My  solution  was 
so  fantastic,  so  apparently  far-fetched,  so  absurd,  that  I 
resolved  to  wait  for  convincing  evidence.  To  obtain 
it,  I continued  to  watch  the  Count,  covertly  and  cau- 
tiously, but  with  a vigilance  which  disinterested  curi- 
osity now  made  intensely  keen.  I returned  to  my 
painting,  and  neglected  no  pretext  for  hovering  about 
the  gardens  and  the  neighborhood  of  the  Casino.  The 
Count,  I think,  suspected  my  designs,  or  at  least  my 
suspicions,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  remember  just 
what  he  had  suffered  himself  to  say  to  me  in  the  Pan- 
theon. But  it  deepened  my  interest  in  his  extraordi- 
nary situation  that,  in  so  far  as  I could  read  his  deeply 
brooding  face,  he  seemed  to  have  grudgingly  pardoned 
me.  He  gave  me  a glance  occasionally,  as  he  passed 
me,  in  which  a sort  of  dumb  desire  for  help  appeared 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


163 


to  struggle  with  the  instinct  of  mistrust.  I was  willing 
enough  to  help  him,  but  the  case  was  prodigiously  del- 
icate, and  I wished  to  master  the  symptoms.  Mean- 
while I worked  and  waited  and  wondered.  Ah ! I 
wondered,  you  may  be  sure,  with  an  interminable  won- 
der ; and,  turn  it  over  as  I would,  I could  n’t  get  used 
to  my  idea.  Sometimes  it  offered  itself  to  me  with 
a perverse  fascination  which  deprived  me  of  all  wish  to 
interfere.  The  Count  took  the  form  of  a precious  psy- 
chological study,  and  refined  feeling  seemed  to  dictate 
a tender  respect  for  his  delusion.  I envied  him  the 
force  of  his  imagination,  and  I used  sometimes  to  close 
my  eyes  with  a vague  desire  that  when  I opened  them 
I might  find  Apollo  under  the  opposite  tree,  lazily  kiss- 
ing his  flute,  or  see  Diana  hurrying  with  long  steps 
down  the  ilex-walk.  But  for  the  most  part  my  host 
seemed  to  me  simply  an  unhappy  young  man,  with  an 
unwholesome  mental  twist  which  should  be  smoothed 
away  as  speedily  as  possible.  If  the  remedy  was  to 
match  the  disease,  however,  it  would  have  to  be  an  in- 
genious compound ! 

One  evening,  having  bidden  my  god-daughter  good 
night,  I had  started  on  my  usual  walk  to  my  lodgings 
in  Borne.  Five  minutes  after  leaving  the  villa-gate  I 
discovered  that  I had  left  my  eye-glass  — an  object 
in  constant  use  — behind  me.  I immediately  remem- 
bered that,  while  painting,  I had  broken  the  string 


164 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  YALERII. 


which  fastened  it  round  my  neck,  and  had  hooked  it 
provisionally  upon  a twig  of  a flowering-almond  tree 
within  arm’s  reach.  Shortly  afterwards  1 had  gathered 
up  my  things  and  retired,  unmindful  of  the  glass ; and 
now,  as  I needed  it  to  read  the  evening  paper  at  the 
Caffe  Greco,  there  was  no  alternative  but  to  retrace  my 
steps  and  detach  it  from  its  twig.  I easily  found  it, 
and  lingered  awhile  to  note  the  curious  night-aspect  of 
the  spot  I had  been  studying  by  daylight.  The  night, 
was  magnificent,  and  full-charged  with  the  breath  of 
the  early  Roman  spring.  The  moon  was  rising  fast  and 
flinging  her  silver  checkers  into  the  heavy  masses  of 
shadow.  Watching  her  at  play,  I strolled  farther  and 
suddenly  came  in  sight  of  the  Casino. 

Just  then  the  moon,  which  for  a moment  had  been 
concealed,  touched  with  a white  ray  a small  marble 
figure  which  adorned  the  pediment  of  this  rather  fac- 
titious little  structure.  Its  sudden  illumination  sug- 
gested that  a rarer  spectacle  was  at  hand,  and  that  the 
same  influence  must  be  vastly  becoming  to  the  im- 
prisoned Juno.  The  door  of  the  Casino  was,  as  usual, 
locked,  but  the  moonlight  was  flooding  the  high-placed 
windows  so  generously  that  my  curiosity  became  ob- 
stinate — and  inventive.  I dragged  a garden-seat  round 
from  the  portico,  placed  it  on  end,  and  succeeded  in 
climbing  to  the  top  of  it  and  bringing  myself  abreast 
of  one  of  the  windows.  The  casement  yielded  to  my 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


165 


pressure,  turned  on  its  hinges,  and  showed  me  what 
I had  been  looking  for,  — Juno  visited  by  Diana.  The 
beautiful  image  stood  bathed  in  the  radiant  flood  and 
shining  with  a purity  which  made  her  most  persua- 
sively divine.  If  by  day  her  mellow  complexion  sug- 
gested faded  gold,  her  substance  now  might  have 
passed  for  polished  silver.  The  effect  was  almost  terri- 
ble; beauty  so  eloquent  could  hardly  be  inanimate. 
This  was  my  foremost  observation.  I leave  you  to 
fancy  whether  my  next  was  less  interesting.  At  some 
distance  from  the  foot  of  the  statue,  just  out  of  the 
light,  I perceived  a figure  lying  flat  on  the  pavement, 
prostrate  apparently  with  devotion.  I can  hardly  tell 
you  how  it  completed  the  impressiveness  of  the  scene. 
It  marked  the  shining  image  as  a goddess  indeed,  and 
seemed  to  throw  a sort  of  conscious  pride  into  her 
stony  mask.  I of  course  immediately  recognized  this 
recumbent  worshipper  as  the  Count,  and  while  I stood 
gazing,  as  if  to  help  me  to  read  the  full  meaning  of 
his  attitude,  the  moonlight  travelled  forward  and  cov- 
ered his  breast  and  face.  Then  I saw  that  his  eyes 
were  closed,  and  that  he  was  either  asleep  or  swoon- 
ing. Watching  him  attentively,  I detected  his  even 
respirations,  and  judged  there  was  no  reason  for  alarm. 
The  moonlight  blanched  his  face,  which  seemed  already 
pale  with  weariness.  He  had  come  into  the  presence 
of  the  Juno  in  obedience  to  that  fabulous  passion  of 


166 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


which  the  symptoms  had  so  wofully  perplexed  us,  and, 
exhausted  either  by  compliance  or  resistance,  he  had 
sunk  down  at  her  feet  in  a stupid  sleep.  The  bright 
moonshine  soon  aroused  him,  however;  he  muttered 
something  and  raised  himself,  vaguely  staring.  Then 
recognizing  his  situation,  he  rose  and  stood  for  some 
time  gazing  fixedly  at  the  glowing  image  with  an 
expression  which  I fancied  was  not  that  of  wholly 
unprotesting  devotion.  He  uttered  a string  of  broken 
words  of  which  I was  unable  to  catch  the  meaning, 
and  then,  after  another  pause  and  a long,  melancholy 
moan,  he  turned  slowly  to  the  door.  As  rapidly  and 
noiselessly  as  possible  I descended  from  my  post  of 
vigilance  and  passed  behind  the  Casino,  and  in  a mo- 
ment "I  heard  the  sound  of  the  closing  lock  and  of  ' 
his  departing  footsteps. 

The  next  day,  meeting  the  little  antiquarian  in  the 
grounds,  I shook  my  finger  at  him  with  what  I meant 
he  should  consider  portentous  gravity.  But  he  only 
grinned  like  the  malicious  earth-gnome  to  which  I 
had  always  compared  him,  and  twisted  his  mustache 
as  if  my  menace  was  a capital  joke.  “If  you  dig  any 
more  holes  here,”  I said,  “ you  shall  be  thrust  into  the 
deepest  of  them,  and  have  the  earth  packed  down  on 
top  of  you.  We  have  made  enough  discoveries,  and 
we  want  no  more  statues.  Your  Juno  has  almost 
ruined  us.” 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII.  167 

He  burst  out  laughing.  “ I expected  as  much,”  he 
cried ; “ I had  my  notions  ! ” 

“ What  did  you  expect  ? ” 

“ That  the  Signor  Conte  would  begin  and  say  his 
prayers  to  her.’, 

“ Good  heavens ! Is  the  case  so  common  ? Why 
did  you  expect  it  ? ” 

“ On  the  contrary,  the  case  is  rare.  But  I ’ve  fum- 
bled so  long  in  the  monstrous  heritage  of  antiquity, 
that  I have  learned  a multitude  of  secrets ; learned  that 
ancient  relics  may  work  modern  miracles.  There ’s 
a pagan  element  in  all  of  us,  — I don’t  speak  for 
you,  illustrissimi  forestieri , — and  the  old  gods  have 
still  their  worshippers.  The  old  spirit  still  throbs 
here  and  there,  and  the  Signor  Conte  has  his*  share 
of  it.  He ’s  a good  fellow,  but,  between  ourselves, 
he ’s  an  impossible  Christian ! ” And  this  singular 
personage  resumed  his  impertinent  hilarity. 

“ If  your  previsions  were  so  distinct,”  I said, 
“you  ought  to  have  given  me  a hint  of  them.  I 
should  have  sent  your  spadesmen  walking.” 

“ Ah,  but  the  J uno  is  so  beautiful ! ” 

“ Her  beauty  be  blasted ! Can  you  tell  me  what 
has  become  of  the  Contessa’s  ? To  rival  the  Juno, 
she ’s  turning  to  marble  herself.” 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “Ah,  but  the  Juno 
is  worth  fifty  thousand  scudi!” 


168 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  YALERII. 


“ I ’d  give  a hundred  thousand,”  I said,  “ to  have 
her  annihilated.  Perhaps,  after  all,  I shall  want  you 
to  dig  another  hole.” 

“ At  your  service ! ” he  answered,  with  a flourish ; 
and  we  separated. 

A couple  of  days  later  I dined,  as  I often  did, 
with  my  host  and  hostess,  and  met  the  Count  face 
to  face  for  the  first  time  since  his  prostration  in 
the  Casino.  He  bore  the  traces  of  it,  and  sat  plunged 
in  sombre  distraction.  I fancied  that  the  path  of 
the  antique  faith  was  not  strewn  with  flowers,  and 
that  the  Juno  was  becoming  daily  a harder  mistress 
to  serve.  Dinner  was  scarcely  over  before  he  rose 
from  table  and  took  up  his  hat.  As  he  did  so, 
passing  near  his  wife,  he  faltered  a moment,  stopped 
and  gave  her  — for  the  first  time,  I imagine  — that 
vaguely  imploring  look  which  I had  often  caught. 
She  moved  her  lips  in  inarticulate  sympathy  and 
put  out  her  hands.  He  drew  her  towards  him, 
kissed  her  with  a kind  of  angry  ardor,  and  strode 
away.  The  occasion  was  propitious,  and  further  de- 
lay unnecessary. 

“ What  I have  to  tell  you  is  very  strange,”  I 
said  to  the  Countess,  “very  fantastic,  very  incredible. 
But  perhaps  you  ’ll  not  find  it  so  bad  as  you  feared. 
There  is  a woman  in  the  case ! Your  enemy  is  the 
Juno.  The  Count  — how  shall  I say  it? — the  Count 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


169 


takes  her  an  sdrieux”  She  was  silent ; hut  after  a 
moment  she  touched  my  arm  with  her  hand,  and 
I knew  she  meant  that  I had  spoken  her  own  be- 
lief. “ You  admired  his  antique  simplicity : you  see 
how  far  it  goes.  He  has  reverted  to  the  faith  of 
his  fathers.  Dormant  through  the  ages,  that  impe- 
rious statue  has  silently  aroused  it.  He  believes  in 
the  pedigrees  you  used  to  dog’s-ear  your  School  My- 
thology with  trying  to  get  by  heart.  In  a word, 
dear  child,  Camillo  is  a pagan ! ” 

“ I suppose  you  ’ll  be  terribly  shocked,”  she  an- 
swered, “ if  I say  that  he ’s  welcome  to  any  faith,  if 
he  will  only  share  it  with  me.  I ’ll  believe  in  Ju- 
piter, if  he  ’ll  bid  me ! My  sorrow ’s  not  for  that : 
let  my  husband  be  himself!  My  sorrow  is  for  the 
gulf  of  silence  and  indifference  that  has  burst  open  be- 
tween us.  His  Juno ’s  the  reality  ; I ’m  the  fiction  !” 

“ I ’ve  lately  become  reconciled  to  this  gulf  of  si- 
lence, and  to  your  fading  for  a while  into  a fiction. 
After  the  fable,  the  moral ! The  poor  fellow  has  but 
half  succumbed : the  other  half  protests.  The  mod- 
ern man  is  shut  out  in  the  darkness  with  his  in- 
comparable wife.  How  can  he  have  failed  to  feel  — 
vaguely  and  grossly  if  it  must  have  been,  but  in 
every  throb  of  his  heart  — that  you  are  a more  per- 
fect experiment  of  nature,  a riper  fruit  of  time,  than 
those  primitive  persons  for  whom  Juno  was  a terror 
8 


170 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


and  Venus  an  example  ? He  pays  you  the  compli- 
ment of  believing  you  an  inconvertible  modern.  He 
has  crossed  the  Acheron,  but  he  has  left  you  be- 
hind, as  a pledge  to  the  present.  We  ’ll  bring  him 
back  to  redeem  it.  The  old  ancestral  ghosts  ought 
to  be  propitiated  when  a pretty  creature  like  you 
has  sacrificed  the  fragrance  of  her  life.  He  has 
proved  himself  one  of  the  Valerii ; we  shall  see  to 
it  that  he  is  the  last,  and  yet  that  his  decease 
shall  leave  the  Conte  Camillo  in  excellent  health.” 

I spoke  with  confidence  which  I had  partly  felt, 
for  it  seemed  to  me  that  if  the  Count  was  to  be 
touched,  it  must  be  by  the  sense  that  his  strange 
spiritual  excursion  had  not  made  his  wife  detest  him. 
We  talked  long  and  to  a hopeful  end,  for  before  I 
went  away  my  god-daughter  expressed  the  desire  to 
go  out  and  look  at  the  Juno.  “ I was  afraid  of  her 
almost  from  the  first,”  she  said,  “ and  have  hardly 
seen  her  since  she  was  set  up  in  the  Casino.  Per- 
haps I can  learn  a lesson  from  her,  — perhaps  I can 
guess  how  she  charms  him!” 

For  a moment  I hesitated,  with  the  fear  that  we 
might  intrude  upon  the  Count’s  devotions.  Then,  as 
something  in  the  poor  girl’s  face  suggested  that  she 
had  thought  of  this  and  felt  a sudden  impulse  to 
pluck  victory  from  the  heart  of  danger,  I bravely 
offered  her  my  arm.  The  night  was  cloudy,  and  on 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERI I. 


171 


this  occasion,  apparently,  the  triumphant  goddess  was 
to  depend  upon  her  own  lustre.  But  as  we  approached 
the  Casino  I saw  that  the  door  was  ajar,  and  that  there 
was  lamplight  within.  The  lamp  was  suspended  in 
front  of  the  image,  and  it  showed  us  that  the  place 
was  empty.  But  the  Count  had  lately  been  there. 
Before  the  statue  stood  a roughly  extemporized  altar, 
composed  of  a nameless  fragment  of  antique  marble, 
engraved  with  an  illegible  Greek  inscription.  We 
seemed  really  to  stand  in  a pagan  temple,  and  we 
gazed  at  the  serene  divinity  with  an  impulse  of  spir- 
itual reverence.  It  ought  to  have  been  deepened,  I 
suppose,  but  it  was  rudely  checked,  by  our  observing 
a curious  glitter  on  the  face  of  the  low  altar.  A sec- 
ond glance  showed  us  it  was  blood ! 

My  companion  looked  at  me  in  pale  horror,  and 
turned  away  with  a cry.  A swarm  of  hideous  con- 
jectures pressed  into  my  mind,  and  for  a moment  I 
was  sickened.  But  at  last  I remembered  that  there 
is  blood  and  blood,  and  the  Latins  were  posterior  to 
the  cannibals. 

“ Be  sure  it ’s  very  innocent,”  I said ; “ a lamb,  a kid, 
or  a sucking  calf ! ” But  it  was  enough  for  her  nerves 
and  her  conscience  that  it  was  a crimson  trickle,  and 
she  returned  to  the  house  in  sad  agitation.  The  rest 
of  the  night  was  not  passed  in  a way  to  restore  her 
to  calmness.  The  Count  had  not  come  in,  and  she 


172 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


sat  up  for  him  from  hour  to  hour.  I remained  with 
her  and  smoked  my  cigar  as  composedly  as  I might ; 
but  internally  I wondered  what  in  horror’s  name  had 
become  of  him.  Gradually,  as  the  hours  wore  away, 
I shaped  a vague  interpretation  of  these  dusky  por- 
tents,— an  interpretation  none  the  less  valid  and  de- 
voutly desired  for  its  being  tolerably  cheerful.  The 
blood-drops  on  the  altar,  I mused,  were  the  last  instal- 
ment of  his  debt  and  the  end  of  his  delusion.  They 
had  been  a happy  necessity,  for  he  was,  after  all,  too 
gentle  a creature  not  to  hate  himself  for  having  shed 
them,  not  to  abhor  so  cruelly  insistent  an  idol.  He 
had  wandered  away  to  recover  himself  in  solitude, 
and  he  would  come  back  to  us  with  a repentant  heart 
and  an  inquiring  mind ! I should  certainly  have  be- 
lieved all  this  more  easily,  however,  if  I could  have 
heard  his  footstep  in  the  hall.  Toward  dawn,  scep- 
ticism threatened  to  creep  in  with  the  gray  light,  and 
I restlessly  betook  myself  to  the  portico.  Here  in  a 
few  moments  I saw  him  cross  the  grass,  heavy-footed, 
splashed  with  mud,  and  evidently  excessively  tired. 
He  must  have  been  walking  all  night,  and  his  face 
denoted  that  his  spirit  had  been  as  restless  as  his  body. 
He  paused  near  me,  and  before  he  entered  the  house 
he  stopped,  looked  at  me  a moment,  and  then  held 
out  his  hand.  I grasped  it  warmly,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  to  throb  with  all  that  he  could  not  utter. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


173 


“ Will  yon  see  your  wife  ? ” I asked. 

He  passed  liis  hand  over  his  eyes  and  shook  his 
head.  “Not  now  — not  yet — some  time!”  he  an- 
swered. 

I was  disappointed,  hut  I convinced  her,  I think, 
that  he  had  cast  out  the  devil.  She  felt,  poor  girl,  a 
pardonable  desire  to  celebrate  the  event.  I returned 
to  my  lodging,  spent  the  day  in  Eome,  and  came 
back  to  the  Villa  toward  dusk.  I was  told  that  the 
Countess  was  in  the  grounds.  I looked  for  her 
cautiously  at  first,  for  I thought  it  just  possible  I 
might  interrupt  the  natural  consequences  of  a recon- 
ciliation; but  failing  to  meet  her,  I turned  toward 
the  Casino,  and  found  myself  face  to  face  with  the 
little  explorer. 

“Does  your  excellency  happen  to  have  twenty  yards 
of  stout  rope  about  him  ? ” he  asked  gravely. 

“Do  you  want  to  hang  yourself  for  the  trouble 
you’ve  stood  sponsor  to?”  I answered. 

“ It *s  a hanging  matter,  I promise  you.  The  Coun- 
tess has  given  orders.  You  T1  find  her  in  the  Casino. 
Sweet-voiced  as  she  is,  she  knows  how  to  make  her 
orders  understood.” 

At  the  door  of  the  Casino  stood  half  a dozen  of 
the  laborers  on  the  place,  looking  vaguely  solemn, 
like  outstanding  dependants  at  a superior  funeral. 
The  Countess  was  within,  in  a position  which  was  an 


174 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERI I. 


answer  to  the  surveyor’s  riddle.  She  stood  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  Juno,  who  had  been  removed  from 
her  pedestal  and  lay  stretched  in  her  magnificent  length 
upon  a rude  litter. 

“ Do  you  understand  ? ” she  said.  “ She ’s  beautiful, 
she ’s  noble,  she ’s  precious,  but  she  must  go  back ! ” 
And,  with  a passionate  gesture,  she  seemed  to  indicate 
an  open  grave. 

I was  hugely  delighted,  but  I thought  it  discreet 
to  stroke  my  chin  and  look  sober.  “ She ’s  worth  fifty 
thousand  seudi.” 

She  shook  her  head  sadly.  “ If  we  were  to  sell 
her  to  the  Pope  and  give  the  money  to  the  poor,  it 
wrould  n’t  profit  us.  She  must  go  back,  — she  must 
go  back ! We  must  smother  her  beauty  in  the  dread- 
ful earth.  It  makes  me  feel  almost  as  if  she  were 
alive  ; but  it  came  to  me  last  night  with  overwhelm- 
ing force,  when  my  husband  came  in  and  refused  to 
see  me,  that  he  ’ll  not  be  himself  as  long  as  she  is 
above  ground.  To  cut  the  knot  we  must  bury  her! 
If  I had  only  thought  of  it  before  ! ” 

“Not  before!”  I said,  shaking  my  head  in  turn. 
“Heaven  reward  our  sacrifice  now!” 

The  little  surveyor,  when  he  reappeared,  seemed 
hardly  like  an  agent  of  the  celestial  influences,  but 
lie  was  deft  and  active,  which  was  more  to  the  point. 
Every  now  and  then  he  uttered  some  lialf-articulate 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  YALERII. 


175 


lament,  by  way  of  protest  against  the  Countess’s 
cruelty ; but  I saw  him  privately  scanning  the  re- 
cumbent image  with  an  eye  which  seemed  to  foresee 
a malicious  glee  in  standing  on  a certain  unmarked 
spot  on  the  turf  and  grinning  till  people  stared.  He 
had  brought  back  an  abundance  of  rope,  and  having 
summoned  his  assistants,  who  vigorously  lifted  the 
litter,  he  led  the  way  to  the  original  excavation, 
which  had  been  left  unclosed  with  the  project  of 
further  researches.  By  the  time  we  reached  the 
edge  of  the  grave  the  evening'  had  fallen  and  the 
beauty  of  our  marble  victim  was  shrouded  in  a 
dusky  veil.  No  one  spoke,  — if  not  exactly  for  shame, 
at  least  for  regret.  Whatever  our  plea,  our  perform- 
ance looked,  at  least,  monstrously  profane.  The  ropes 
were  adjusted  and  the  Juno  was  slowly  lowered  into 
her  earthy  bed.  The  Countess  took  a handful  of  earth 
and  dropped  it  solemnly  on  her  breast.  “May  it  lie 
lightly,  but  forever ! ” she  said. 

“ Amen ! ” cried  the  little  surveyor  with  a strange 
mocking  inflection ; and  he  gave  us  a bow,  as  he  de- 
parted, which  betrayed  an  agreeable  consciousness  of 
knowing  where  fifty  thousand  scudi  were  buried.  His 
underlings  had  another  cask  of  wine,  the  result  of 
which,  for  them,  was  a suspension  of  all  conscious- 
ness, and  a subsequent  irreparable  confusion  of  mem- 
ory as  to  where  they  had  plied  their  spades. 


176 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


The  Countess  had  not  yet  seen  her  husband,  who 
had  again  apparently  betaken  himself  to  communion 
with  the  great  god  Pan.  I was  of  course  unwilling 
to  leave  her  to  encounter  alone  the  results  of  her 
momentous  deed.  She  wandered  into  the  drawing- 
room and  pretended  to  occupy  herself  with  a bit  of 
embroidery,  but  in  reality  she  was  bravely  composing 
herself  for  an  “ explanation.”  I took  up  a book,  but 
it  held  my  attention  as  feebly.  As  the  evening  wore 
away  I heard  a movement  on  the  threshold  and  saw 
the  Count  lifting  the  tapestried  curtain  which  masked 
the  door,  and  looking  silently  at  his  wife.  His  eyes 
were  brilliant,  but  not  angry.  He  had  missed  the 
Juno  — and  drawn  a long  breath!  The  Countess 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  work,  and  drew  her  silken 
stitches  like  an  image  of  wifely  contentment.  The 
image  seemed  to  fascinate  him:  he  came  in  slowly, 
almost  on  tiptoe,  walked  to  the  chimney-piece,  and 
stood  there  in  a sort  of  rapt  contemplation.  What 
had  passed,  what  was  passing,  in  his  mind,  I leave 
to  your  own  apprehension.  My  god-daughter’s  hand 
trembled  as  it  rose  and  fell,  and  the  color  came  into 
her  cheek.  At  last  she  raised  her  eyes  and  sustained 
the  gaze  in  which  all  his  returning  faith  seemed  con- 
centrated. He  hesitated  a moment,  as  if  her  very 
forgiveness  kept  the  gulf  open  between  them,  and 
then  he  strode  forward,  fell  oil  his  two  knees  and 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VALERII. 


177 


buried  his  head  in  her  lap.  I departed  as  the  Count 
had  come  in,  on  tiptoe. 

He  never  became,  if  you  will,  a thoroughly  modern 
man ; but  one  day,  years  after,  when  a visitor  to  whom 
he  was  showing  his  cabinet  became  inquisitive  as  to 
a marble  hand,  suspended  in  one  of  its  inner  recesses, 
he  looked  grave  and  turned  the  lock  on  it.  “ It  is 
the  hand  of  a beautiful  creature,1 ” he  said,  “whom  I 
once  greatly  admired.” 

“ Ah,  — a Eoman  ? ” said  the  gentleman,  with  a 
smirk. 

“A  Greek,”  said  the  Count,  with  a frown. 


8* 


L 


/ 


Eugene  Pickeeing. 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


i. 

IT  was  at  Homburg,  several  years  ago,  before  the 
gaining  had  been  suppressed.  The  evening  was 
very  warm,  and  all  the  world  was  gathered  on  the 
terrace  of  the  Kursaal  and  the  esplanade  below  it,  to 
listen  to  the  excellent  orchestra ; or  half  the  world, 
rather,  for  the  crowd  was  equally  dense  in  the  gaming- 
rooms,  around  the  tables.  Everywhere  the  crowd  was 
great.  The  night  was  perfect,  the  season  w^as  at  its 
height,  the  open  windows  of  the  Kursaal  sent  long 
shafts  of  unnatural  light  into  the  dusky  woods,  and 
now  and  then,  in  the  intervals  of  the  music,  one  might 
almost  hear  the  clink  of  the  napoleons  and  the  metallic 
call  of  the  croupiers  rise  above  the  watching  silence 
of  the  saloons.  I had  been  strolling  with  a friend,  and 
we  at  last  prepared  to  sit  down.  Chairs,  however,  were 
scarce.  I had  captured  one,  but  it  seemed  no  easy 
matter  to  find  a mate  for  it.  I was  on  the  point  of 
giving  up  in  despair  and  proposing  an  adjournment  to 


182 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


the  damask  divans  of  the  Kursaal,  when  I observed 
a young  man  lounging  back  on  one  of  the  objects  of 
my  quest,  with  his  feet  supported  on  the  rounds  of 
another.  This  was  more  than  his  share  of  luxury, 
and  I promptly  approached  him.  He  evidently  be- 
longed to  the  race  which  has  the  credit  of  knowing 
best,  at  home  and  abroad,  how  to  make  itself  comfort- 
able ; but  something  in  his  appearance  suggested  that 
his  present  attitude  was  the  result  of  inadvertence 
rather  than  egotism.  He  was  staring  at  the  conduc- 
tor of  the  orchestra  and  listening  intently  to  the 
music.  His  hands  were  locked  round  his  long  legs, 
and  his  mouth  was  half  open,  with  rather  a foolish 
air.  “ There  are  so  few  chairs,”  I said,  “ that  I must 
beg  you  to  surrender  this  second  one.”  He  started, 
stared,  blushed,  pushed  the  chair  away  with  awkward 
alacrity,  and  murmured  something  about  not  having 
noticed  that  he  had  it. 

“ What  an  odd-looking  youth ! ” said  my  compan- 
ion, who  had  watched  me,  as  I seated  myself  beside 
her. 

“ Yes,  he ’s  odd-looking ; but  what  is  odder  still  is 
that  I Ve  seen  him  before,  that  his  face  is  familiar  to 
me,  and  yet  that  I can’t  place  him.”  The  orchestra 
was  playing  the  Prayer  from  Der  Freischiitz,  but  We- 
bers lovely  music  only  deepened  the  blank  of  memory. 
Who  the  deuce  was  he  ? where,  when,  how,  had  I 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


183 


known  him  ? It  seemed  extraordinary  that  a face 
should  be  at  once  so  familiar  and  so  strange.  We 
had  our  backs  turned  to  him,  so  that  I could  not  look 
at  him  again.  When  the  music  ceased,  we  left  our 
places  and  I went  to  consign  my  friend  to  her  mamma 
on  the  terrace.  In  passing,  I saw  that  my  young 
man  had  departed ; I concluded  that  he  only  strik- 
ingly resembled  some  one  I knew.  But  who  in  the 
world  was  it  he  resembled?  The  ladies  went  off  to 
their  lodgings,  which  were  near  by,  and  I turned  into 
the  gaming-rooms  and  hovered  about  the  circle  at 
roulette.  Gradually,  I filtered  through  to  the  inner 
edge,  near  the  table,  and,  looking  round,  saw  my  puz- 
zling friend  stationed  opposite  to  me.  He  was  watch- 
ing the  game,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets ; but, 
singularly  enough,  now  that  I observed  him  at  my 
leisure,  the  look  of  familiarity  quite  faded  from  his 
face.  What  had  made  us  call  his  appearance  odd  was 
his  great  length  and  leanness  of  limb,  his  long,  white 
neck,  his  blue,  prominent  eyes,  and  his  ingenuous, 
unconscious  absorption  in  the  scene  before  him.  He 
was  not  handsome,  certainly,  but  he  looked  peculiarly 
amiable;  and  if  his  overt  wonderment  savored  a trifle 
of  rurality,  it  was  an  agreeable  contrast  to  the  hard, 
inexpressive  masks  about  him.  He  was  the  verdant 
offshoot,  I said  to  myself,  of  some  ancient,  rigid  stem ; 
he  had  been  brought  up  in  the  quietest  of  homes,  and 


184 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


was  having  his  first  glimpse  of  life.  I was  curious  to 
see  whether  he  would  put  anything  on  the  table ; he 
evidently  felt  the  temptation,  but  he  seemed  paralyzed 
by  chronic  embarrassment.  He  stood  gazing  at  the 
rattling  cross-fire  of  losses  and  gains,  shaking  his  loose 
gold  in  his  pocket,  and  every  now  and  then  passing 
his  hand  nervously  over  his  eyes. 

Most  of  the  spectators  were  too  attentive  to  the  play 
to  have  many  thoughts  for  each  other ; but  before  long 
I noticed  a lady  who  evidently  had  an  eye  for  her 
neighbors  as  well  as  for  the  table.  She  was  seated 
about  half-way  between  my  friend  and  me,  and  I 
presently  observed  that  she  was  trying  to  catch  his 
eye.  Though  at  Homburg,  as  people  said,  “ one  could 
never  be  sure,”  I yet  doubted  whether  this  lady  was 
one  of  those  whose  especial  vocation  it  was  to  catch 
a gentleman’s  eye.  She  was  youthful  rather  than 
elderly,  and  pretty  rather  than  plain  ; indeed,  a few 
minutes  later,  when  I saw  her  smile,  I thought  her 
wonderfully  pretty.  She  had  a charming  gray  eye  and 
a good  deal  of  blond  hair,  disposed  in  picturesque  dis- 
order ; and  though  her  features  were  meagre  and  her 
complexion  faded,  she  gave  one  a sense  of  sentimental, 
artificial  gracefulness.  She  was  dressed  in  white  mus- 
lin very  much  puffed  and  frilled,  but  a trifle  the  worse 
for  wear,  relieved  here  and  there  by  a pale  blue  rib- 
bon. I used  to  flatter  myself  on  guessing  at  people’s 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


185 


nationality  by  their  faces,  and,  as  a rule,  I guessed 
aright.  This  faded,  crumpled,  vaporous  beauty,  I con- 
ceived, was  a German,  — such  a German,  somehow, 
as  I had  seen  imaged  in  literature.  Was  she  not  a 
friend  of  poets,  a correspondent  of  philosophers,  a 
muse,  a priestess  of  aesthetics,  — something  in  the 
way  of  a Bettina,  a Eahel  ? My  conjectures,  how- 
ever, were  speedily  merged  in  wonderment  as  to  what 
my  diffident  friend  was  making  of  her.  She  caught 
his  eye  at  last,  and  raising  an  ungloved  hand,  covered 
altogether  with  blue-gemmed  rings,  — turquoises,  sap- 
phires, and  lapis,  — she  beckoned  him  to  come  to  her. 
The  gesture  was  executed  with  a sort  of  practised 
coolness  and  accompanied  with  an  appealing  smile. 
He  stared  a moment,  rather  blankly,  unable  to  sup- 
pose that  the  invitation  was  addressed  to  him ; then, 
as  it  was  immediately  repeated,  with  a good  deal  of 
intensity,  he  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  wavered 
awkwardly,  and  at  last  made  his  way  to  the  lady’s 
chair.  By  the  time  he  reached  it  he  was  crimson 
and  wiping  his  forehead  with  his  pocket-handkerchief. 
She  tilted  back,  looked  up  at  him  with  the  same  smile, 
laid  two  fingers  on  his  sleeve,  and  said  something, 
interrogatively,  to  which  he  replied  by  a shake  of  the 
head.  She  was  asking  him,  evidently,  if  he  had  ever 
played,  and  he  was  saying  no.  Old  players  have  a 
fancy  that  when  luck  has  turned  her  back  on  them, 


186 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


they  can  put  her  into  good-humor  again  by  having 
their  stakes  placed  by  an  absolute  novice.  Our  young 
man’s  physiognomy  had  seemed  to  his  new  acquaint- 
ance to  express  the  perfection  of  inexperience,  and, 
like  a practical  woman,  she  had  determined  to  make 
him  serve  her  turn.  Unlike  most  of  her  neighbors, 
she  had  no  little  pile  of  gold  before  her,  but  she  drew 
from  her  pocket  a double  napoleon,  put  it  into  his 
hand,  arid  bade  him  place  it  on  a number  of  his  own 
choosing.  He  was  evidently  filled  with  a sort  of 
delightful  trouble ; he  enjoyed  the  adventure,  but  he 
shrank  from  the  hazard.  I would  have  staked  the 
coin  on  its  being  his  companion’s  last;  for,  although 
she  still  smiled  intently  as  she  watched  his  hesita- 
tion, there  was  anything  but  indifference  in  her  pale, 
pretty  face.  Suddenly,  in  desperation,  he  reached  over 
and  laid  the  piece  on  the  table.  My  attention  was 
diverted  at  this  moment  by  my  having  to  make  way 
for  a lady  with  a great  many  flounces,  before  me,  to 
give  up  her  chair  to  a rustling  friend  to  whom  she  had 
promised  it ; when  I again  looked  across  at  the  lady 
in  white  muslin,  she  was  drawing  in  a very  goodly 
pile  of  gold  with  her  little  blue-gemmed  claw.  Good 
luck  and  bad,  at  the  Homburg  tables,  were  equally 
undemonstrative,  and  this  fair  adventuress  rewarded 
her  young  friend  for  the  sacrifice  of  his  innocence 
with  a single,  rapid,  upward  smile.  He  had  innocence 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


187 


enough  left,  however,  to  look  round  the  table  with  a 
gleeful,  conscious  laugh,  in  the  midst  of  which  his 
eyes  encountered  my  own.  Then,  suddenly,  the  famil- 
iar look  which  had  vanished  from  his  face  flickered 
up  unmistakably;  it  was  the  boyish  laugh  of  a boy- 
hood’s friend.  Stupid  fellow  that  I was,  I had  been 
looking  at  Eugene  Pickering! 

Though  I lingered  on  for  some  time  longer,  he 
failed  to  recognize  me.  Eecognition,  I think,  had 
kindled  a smile  in  my  own  face;  but,  less  fortunate 
than  he,  I suppose  my  smile  had  ceased  to  be  boyish. 
Now  that  luck  had  faced  about  again,  his  companion 
played  for  herself,  — played  and  won  hand  over  hand. 
At  last  she  seemed  disposed  to  rest  on  her  gains,  and 
proceeded  to  bury  them  in  the  folds  of  her  muslin. 
Pickering  had  staked  nothing  for  himself,  but  as  he 
saw  her  prepare  to  withdraw,  he  offered  her  a double 
napoleon  and  begged  her  to  place  it.  She  shook  her 
head  with  great  decision,  and  seemed  to  bid  him  put 
it  up  again ; but  he,  still  blushing  a good  deal,  urged 
her  with  awkward  ardor,  and  she  at  last  took  it  from 
him,  looked  at  him  a moment  fixedly,  and  laid  it  on 
a number.  A moment  later  the  croupier  was  raking 
it  in.  She  gave  the  young  man  a little  nod  which 
seemed  to  say,  “ I told  you  so  ” ; he  glanced  round 
the  table  again  and  laughed ; she  left  her  chair, 
and  he  made  a way  for  her  through  the  crowd.  Be- 


188 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


fore  going  home  I took  a turn  on  the  terrace  and 
looked  down  on  the  esplanade.  The  lamps  were  out, 
but  the  warm  starlight  vaguely  illumined  a dozen 
figures  scattered  in  couples.  One  of  these  figures,  I 
thought,  w^as  a lady  in  a white  dress. 

I had  no  intention  of  letting  Pickering  go  without 
reminding  him  of  our  old  acquaintance.  He  had  been 
a very  droll  boy,  and  I was  curious  to  see  what  had 
become  of  his  drollery.  I looked  for  him  the  next 
morning  at  two*  or  three  of  the  hotels,  and  at  last 
discovered  his  whereabouts.  But  he  was  out,  the 
waiter  said;  he  had  gone  to  w^alk  an  hour  before.  I 
went  my  way,  confident  that  I should  meet  him  in 
the  evening.  It  was  the  rule  with  the  Homburg 
world  to  spend  its  evenings  at  the  Kursaal,  and  Pick- 
ering, apparently,  had  already  discovered  a good  rea- 
son for  not  being  an  exception.  One  of  the  charms 
of  Homburg  is  the  fact  that  of  a hot  day  you  may 
walk  about  for  a whole  afternoon  in  unbroken  shade. 
The  umbrageous  gardens  of  the  Kursaal  mingle  with 
the  charming  Hardtwald,  which,  in  turn,  melts  away 
into  the  wooded  slopes  of  the  Taunus  Mountains. 
To  the  Hardtwald  I bent  my  steps,  and  strolled  for 
an  hour  through  mossy  glades  and  the  still,  perpen- 
dicular gloom  of  the  fir  woods.  Suddenly,  on  the 
grassy  margin  of  a by-path,  I came  upon  a young 
man  stretched  at  his  length  in  the  sun-clieckered 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


189 


shade  and  kicking  his  heels  toward  a patch  of  blue 
sky.  My  step  was  so  noiseless  on  the  turf,  that  be- 
fore he  saw  me,  I had  time  to  recognize  Pickering 
again.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  lounging  there 
for  some  time;  his  hair  was  tossed  about  as  if  he 
had  been  sleeping;  on  the  grass  near  him,  beside 
his  hat  and  stick,  lay  a sealed  letter.  When  he  per- 
ceived me  he  jerked  himself  forward,  and  I stood 
looking  at  him  without  elucidating,  — purposely,  to 
give  him  a chance  to  recognize  me.  He  put  on  his 
glasses,  being  awkwardly  near-sighted,  and  stared  up 
at  me  with  an  air  of  general  trustfulness,  but  with- 
out a sign  of  knowing  me.  So  at  last  I introduced 
myself.  Then  he  jumped  up  and  grasped  my  hands 
and  stared  and  blushed  and  laughed  and  began  a 
dozen  random  questions,  ending  with  a demand  as 
to  how  in  the  world  I had  known  him. 

“ Why,  you  ’re  not  changed  so  utterly,”  I said,  “ and, 
after  all,  it  ’s  but  fifteen  years  since  you  used  to  do 
my  Latin  exercises  for  me.” 

“Not  changed,  eh?”  he  answered,  still  smiling,  and 
yet  speaking  with  a sort  of  ingenuous  dismay. 

Then  I remembered  that  poor  Pickering  had  been 
in  those  Latin  days  a victim  of  juvenile  irony.  He 
used  to  bring  a bottle  of  medicine  to  school  and 
take  a dose  in  a glass  of  water  before  lunch ; and 
every  day  at  two  o’clock,  half  an  hour  before  the  rest 


190 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


of  us  were  liberated,  an  old  nurse  with  bushy  eye- 
brows came  and  fetched  him  away  in  a carriage. 
His  extremely  fair  complexion,  his  nurse,  and  his 
bottle  of  medicine,  which  suggested  a vague  analogy 
with  the  phial  of  poison  in  the  tragedy,  caused  him 
to  be  called  Juliet.  Certainly,  Borneo’s  sweetheart 
hardly  suffered  more ; she  was  not,  at  least,  a stand- 
ing joke  in  Verona.  Bemembering  these  things,  I 
hastened  to  say  to  Pickering  that  I hoped  he  was 
still  the  same  good  fellow  who  used  to  do  my  Latin 
for  me.  “We  were  capital  friends,  you  know,”  I 
went  on,  “then  and  afterwards.” 

“Yes,  we  were  very  good  friends,”  he  said,  “and 
that  makes  it  the  stranger  I should  n’t  have  known 
you.  For  you  know  as  a boy  I never  had  many 
friends,  nor  as  a man  either.  You  see,”  he  added, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  “ I ’m  dazed  and  be- 
wildered at  finding  myself  for  the  first  time  — alone.” 
And  he  jerked  back  his  shoulders  nervously  and 
threw  up  his  head,  as  if  to  settle  himself  in  an  un- 
wonted position.  I wondered  whether  the  old  nurse 
with  the  bushy  eyebrows  had  remained  attached  to 
his  person  up  to  a recent  period,  and  discovered 
presently  that,  virtually  at  least,  she  had.  We  had 
the  whole  summer  day  before  us,  and  we  sat  down 
on  the  grass  together  and  overhauled  our  old  memo- 
ries. It  was  as  if  we  had  stumbled  upon  an  ancient 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


191 


cupboard  in  some  dusky  corner,  and  rummaged  out 
a heap  of  childish  playthings,  — tin  soldiers  and  torn 
story-books,  jack-knives  and  Chinese  puzzles.  This  is 
what  we  remembered,  between  us. 

He  had  made  but  a short  stay  at  school,  — not 
because  he  was  tormented,  for  he  thought  it  so  fine 
to  be  at  school  at  all  that  he  held  his  tongue  at 
home  about  the  sufferings  incurred  through  the  medi- 
cine bottle  : but  because  his  father  thought  he  was 
learning  bad  manners.  This  he  imparted  to  me  in 
confidence  at  the  time,  and  I remember  how  it  in- 
creased my  oppressive  awe  of  Mr.  Pickering,  who 
had  appeared  to  me,  in  glimpses,  as  a sort  of  high- 
priest  of  the  proprieties.  Mr.  Pickering  was  a wid- 
ower,— a fact  which  seemed  to  produce  in  him  a 
sort  of  preternatural  concentration  of  parental  dig- 
nity. He  was  a majestic  man,  with  a hooked  nose, 
a keen,  dark  eye,  very  large  whiskers,  and  notions 
of  his  own  as  to  how  a boy  — or  his  boy,  at  any 
rate  — should  be  brought  up.  First  and  foremost, 
he  was  to  be  a “ gentleman  ” ; which  seemed  to  mean, 
chiefly,  that  he  was  always  to  wear  a muffler  and 
gloves,  and  be  sent  to  bed,  after  a supper  of  bread 
and  milk,  at  eight  o’clock.  School-life,  on  experi- 
ment, seemed  hostile  to  these  observances,  and  Eu- 
gene was  taken  home  again,  to  be  moulded  into 
urbanity  beneath  the  parental  eye.  A tutor  was 


192 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


provided  for  him,  and  a single  select  companion  was 
prescribed.  Tlie  choice,  mysteriously,  fell  upon  me, 
born  as  I was  under  quite  another  star ; my  parents 
were  appealed  to,  and  I was  allowed  for  a few 
months  to  have  my  lessons  with  Eugene.  The  tutor, 
I think,  must  have  been  rather  a snob,  for  Eugene 
was  treated  like  a prince,  while  I got  all  the  ques- 
tions and  the  raps  with  the  ruler.  And  yet  I re- 
member never  being  jealous  of  my  happier  comrade, 
and  striking  up,  for  the  time,  a huge  boyish  friend- 
ship. He  had  a watch  and  a pony  and  a great 
store  of  picture-books,  but  my  envy  of  these  luxuries 
was  tempered  by  a vague  compassion,  which  left  me 
free  to  be  generous.  I could  go  out  to  play  alone, 
I could  button  my  jacket  myself,  and  sit  up  till  I 
was  sleepy.  Poor  Pickering  could  never  take  a step 
without  a prior  petition,  or  spend  half  an  hour  in 
the  garden  without  a formal  report  of  it  when  he 
came  in.  My  parents,  who  had  no  desire  to  see  me 
inoculated  with  importunate  virtues,  sent  me  back  to 
school  at  the  end  of  six  months.  After  that  I never 
saw  Eugene.  His  father  went  to  live  in  the  country, 
to  protect  the  lad’s  morals,  and  Eugene  faded,  in 
reminiscence,  into  a pale-  image  of  the  depressing 
effects  of  education.  I think  I vaguely  supposed 
that  he  would  melt  into  thin  air,  and  indeed  began 
gradually  to  doubt  of  his  existence  and  to  regard 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


193 


him  as  one  of  the  foolish  things  one  ceased  to  be- 
lieve in  as  one  grew  older.  It  seemed  natural  that 
I should  have  no  more  news  of  him.  Our  present 
meeting  was  my  first  assurance  that  he  had  really 
survived  all  that  muffling  and  coddling. 

I observed  him  now  with  a good  deal  of  interest,  for 
he  was  a rare  phenomenon,  — the  fruit  of  a system 
persistently  and  uninterruptedly  applied.  He  struck 
me,  in  a fashion,  like  certain  young  monks  I had  seen 
in  Italy ; he  had  the  same  candid,  unsophisticated 
cloister-face.  His  education  had  been  really  almost 
monastic.  It  had  found  him,  evidently,  a very  com- 
pliant, yielding  subject ; his  gentle,  affectionate  spirit 
was  not  one  of  those  that  need  to  be  broken.  It  had 
bequeathed  him,  now  that  he  stood  on  the  threshold 
of  the  great  world,  an  extraordinary  freshness  of  im- 
pression and  alertness  of  desire,  and  I confess  that,  as 
I looked  at  him  and  met  his  transparent  blue  eye,  I 
trembled  for  the  unwarned  innocence  of  such  a soul. 
I became  aware,  gradually,  that  the  world  had  already 
wrought  a certain  work  upon  him  and  roused  him  to  a 
restless,  troubled  self-consciousness.  Everything  about 
him  pointed  to  an  experience  from  which  he  had  been 
debarred;  his  whole  organism  trembled  with  a dawning 
sense  of  unsuspected  possibilities  of  feeling.  This  ap- 
pealing tremor  was  indeed  outwardly  visible.  He  kept 
shifting  himself  about  on  the  grass,  thrusting  his  hands 


194 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


through  his  hair,  wiping  a light  perspiration  from  his 
forehead,  breaking  out  to  say  something  and  rush- 
ing off  to  something  else.  Our  sudden  meeting  had 
greatly  excited  him,  and  I saw  that  I was  likely  to 
profit  by  a certain  overflow  of  sentimental  fermenta- 
tion. I could  do  so  with  a good  conscience,  for  all  this 
trepidation  filled  me  with  a great  friendliness. 

“ It ’s  nearly  fifteen  years,  as  you  say/’  he  began, 
“ since  you  used  to  call  me  ‘ butter-fingers  ’ for  always 
missing  the  ball.  That ’s  a long  time  to  give  an  ac- 
count of,  and  yet  they  have  been,  for  me,  such  event- 
less, monotonous  years,  that  I could  almost  tell  their 
history  in  ten  words.  You,  I suppose,  have  had  all 
kinds  of  adventures  and  travelled  over  half  the  world. 
I remember  you  had  a turn  for  deeds  of  daring  ; I used 
to  think  you  a little  Captain  Cook  in  roundabouts,  for 
climbing  the  garden  fence  to  get  the  ball,  when  I had 
let  it  fly  over.  I climbed  no  fences  then  or  since.  You 
remember  my  father,  I suppose,  and  the  great  care  he 
took  of  me  ? I lost  him  some  five  months  ago.  From 
those  boyish  days  up  to  his  death  we  were  always 
together.  I don’t  think  that  in  fifteen  years  we  spent 
half  a dozen  hours  apart.  We  lived  in  the  country, 
winter  and  summer,  seeing  but  three  or  four  people.  I 
had  a succession  of  tutors,  and  a library  to  browse 
about  in ; I assure  you  I ’m  a tremendous  scholar.  It 
was  a dull  life  for  a growing  boy,  and  a duller  life  for 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


195 


a young  man  grown,  but  I never  knew  it.  I was  per- 
fectly happy.”  He  spoke  of  his  father  at  some  length 
and  with  a respect  which  I privately  declined  to  emu- 
late. Mr.  Pickering  had  been,  to  my  sense,  a cold 
egotist,  unable  to  conceive  of  any  larger  vocation  for 
his  son  than  to  became  a mechanical  reflection  of  him- 
self. “ I know  I ’ve  been  strangely  brought  up,”  said 
my  friend,  “ and  that  the  result  is  something  grotesque ; 
but  my  education,  piece  by  piece,  in  detail,  became  one 
of  my  father’s  personal  habits,  as  it  were.  He  took  a 
fancy  to  it  at  first  through  his  intense  affection  for  my 
mother  and  the  sort  of  worship  he  paid  her  memory. 
She  died  at  my  birth,  and  as  I grew  up,  it  seems  that  I 
bore  an  extraordinary  likeness  to  her.  Besides,  my 
father  had  a great  many  theories  ; he  prided  himself  on 
his  conservative  opinions  ; he  thought  the  usual  Ameri- 
can laissez  aller  in  education  was  a very  vulgar  prac- 
tice, and  that  children  were  not  to  grow  up  like  dusty 
thorns  by  the  wayside.  So  you  see,”  Pickering  went 
on,  smiling  and  blushing,  and  yet  with  something  of 
the  irony  of  vain  regret,  ‘Tm  a regular  garden  plant. 
I ’ve  been  watched  and  watered  and  pruned,  and,  if 
there  is  any  virtue  in  tending,  I ought  to  take  the 
prize  at  a flower-show.  Some  three  years  ago  my 
father’s  health  broke  down  and  he  was  kept  very 
much  within  doors.  So,  although  I was  a man  grown, 
I lived  altogether  at  home.  If  I was  out  of  his  sight 


196 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


for  a quarter  of  an  hour  he  sent  for  me.  He  had 
severe  attacks  of  neuralgia,  and  he  used  to  sit  at  his 
window,  basking  in  the  sun.  He  kept  an  opera-glass 
at  hand,  and  when  I was  out  in  the  garden  he  used  to 
watch  me  with  it.  A few  days  before  his  death,  I was 
twenty-seven  years  old,  and  the  most  innocent  youth, 
I suppose,  on  the  continent.  After  he  died  I missed 
him  greatly/’  Pickering  continued,  evidently  with  no 
intention  of  making  an  epigram.  “ I stayed  at  home, 
in  a sort  of  dull  stupor.  It  seemed  as  if  life  offered 
itself  to  me  for  the  first  time,  and  yet  as  if  I did  n’t 
know  how  to  take  hold  of  it.” 

He  uttered  all  this  with  a frank  eagerness  which 
increased  as  he  talked,  and  there  was  a singular  con- 
trast between  the  meagre  experience  he  described  and 
a certaint  radiant  intelligence  which  I seemed  to  per- 
ceive in  his  glance  and  tone.  Evidently,  he  was  a 
clever  fellow,  and  his  natural  faculties  were  excellent. 
I imagined  he  had  read  a great  deal,  and  recovered,  in 
some  degree,  in  restless  intellectual  conjecture,  the 
freedom  he  was  condemned  to  ignore  in  practice.  Op- 
portunity was  now  offering  a meaning  to  the  empty 
forms  with  which  his  imagination  was  stored,  but  it 
appeared  to  him  dimly,  through  the  veil  of  his  per- 
sonal diffidence. 

“ I ’ve  not  sailed  round  the  world,  as  you  suppose,” 
I said,  " but  I confess  I envy  you  the  novelties  you 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


197 


are  going  to  behold.  Coming  to  Homburg,  you  have 
plunged  in  medias  res!' 

He  glanced  at  me  to  see  if  my  remark  contained  an 
allusion,  and  hesitated  a moment.  “ Yes,  I know  it. 
I came  to  Bremen  in  the  steamer  with  a very  friendly 
German,  who  undertook  to  initiate  me  into  the  glories 
and  mysteries  of  the  fatherland.  At  this  season,  he 
said,  I must  begin  with  Homburg.  I landed  but  a 
fortnight  ago,  and  here  I am.”  Again  he  hesitated,  as 
if  he  were  going  to  add  something  about  the  scene  at 
the  Kursaal ; but  suddenly,  nervously,  he  took  up  the 
letter  which  was  lying  beside  him,  looked  hard  at  the 
seal  with  a troubled  frown,  and  then  flung  it  back  on 
the  grass  with  a sigh. 

“ How  long  do  you  expect  to  be  in  Europe  ? ” I 
asked. 

“ Six  months,  I supposed  when  I came.  But  not  so 
long  — now!”  And  he  let  his  eyes  wander  to  the 
letter  again. 

“ And  where  shall  you  go  — what  shall  you  do  ? ” 

“ Everywhere,  everything,  I should  have  said  yester- 
day. But  now  it  is  different.” 

I glanced  at  the  letter  interrogatively,  and  he  gravely 
picked  it  up  and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  We  talked  for 
a while  longer,  but  I saw  that  he  had  suddenly  become 
preoccupied ; that  he  was  apparently  weighing  an  im- 
pulse to  break  some  last  barrier  of  reserve.  At  last 


198 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


he  suddenly  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm,  looked  at  me 
a moment  appealingly,  and  cried,  “ Upon  my  word,  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  everything.” 

“Tell  me  everything,  by  all  means,”  I answered, 
smiling.  “ I desire  nothing  better  than  to  lie  here  in 
the  shade  and  hear  everything.” 

“ Ah,  but  the  question  is,  will  you  understand  it  ? 
No  matter;  you  think  me  a queer  fellow  already.  It's 
not  easy,  either,  to  tell  you  what  I feel,  — not  easy  for 
so  queer  a fellow  as  I to  tell  you  in  how  many  ways 
he ’s  queer  ! ” He  got  up  and  walked  away  a moment, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  then  came  back  rapid- 
ly and  flung  himself  on  the  grass  again.  “ I said  just 
now  I always  supposed  I was  happy  ; it ’s  true ; but 
now  that  my  eyes  are  open,  I see  I was  only  stul- 
tified. I was  like  a poodle-dog,  led  about  by  a blue 
ribbon,  and  scoured  and  combed  and  fed  on  slops.  It 
was  not  life ; life  is  learning  to  know  one’s  self,  and  in 
that  sense  I ’ve  lived  more  in  the  past  six  weeks  than 
in  all  the  years  that  preceded  them.  I ’m  filled  with 
this  feverish  sense  of  liberation ; it  keeps  rising  to  my 
head  like  the  fumes  of  strong  wine.  I find  I ’m  an 
active,  sentient,  intelligent  creature,  with  desires,  with 
passions,  with  possible  convictions,  — even  with  what 
I never  dreamed  of,  a possible  will  of  my  own ! I find 
there  is  a world  to  know,  a life  to  lead,  men  and  wo- 
men to  form  a thousand  relations  with.  It  all  lies 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


199 


there  like  a great  surging  sea,  where  we  must  plunge 
and  dive  and  feel  the  breeze  and  breast  the  waves.  I 
stand  shivering  here  on  the  brink,  staring,  longing, 
wondering,  charmed  by  the  smell  of  the  brine  and  yet 
afraid  of  the  water.  The  world  beckons  and  smiles 
and  calls,  but  a nameless  influence  from  the  past,  that 
I can  neither  wholly  obey  nor  wholly  resist,  seems 
to  hold  me  back.  I ’m  full  of  impulses,  but,  some- 
how, I ’m  not  full  of  strength.  Life  seems  inspiring 
at  certain  moments,  but  it  seems  terrible  and  unsafe  ; 
and  I ask  myself  why  I should  wantonly  measure  my- 
self with  merciless  forces,  when  I have  learned  so  well 
how  to  stand  aside  and  let  them  pass.  Why  should  n’t 
I turn  my  back  upon  it  all  and  go  home  to  — what 
awaits  me  ? — to  that  sightless,  soundless  country  life, 
and  long  days  spent  among  old  books  ? But  if  a man 
is  weak,  he  does  n’t  want  to  assent  beforehand  to  his 
weakness ; he  wants  to  taste  whatever  sweetness  there 
may  be  in  paying  for  the  knowledge.  So  it  is  there 
comes  and  comes  again  this  irresistible  impulse  to  take 
my  plunge,  to  let  myself  swing,  to  go  where  liberty 
leads  me.”  He  paused  a moment,  fixing  me  with  his 
excited  eyes,  and  perhaps  perceived  in  my  own  an  ir- 
repressible smile  at  his  intensity.  “ ‘ Swing  ahead,  in 
heaven’s  name,’  you  want  to  say,  ' and  much  good  may 
it  do  you.’  I don’t  know  whether  you  are  laughing  at 
my  trepidation  or  at  what  possibly  strikes  you  as  my 


200 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


depravity.  I doubt/’  he  went  on  gravely,  “ whether  I 
have  an  inclination  toward  wrong-doing ; if  I have, 
I ’m  sure  I sha’  n’t  prosper  in  it.  I honestly  believe  I 
may  safely  take  out  a license  to  amuse  myself.  But 
it  isn’t  that  I think  of,  any  more  than  I dream  of 
playing  with  suffering.  Pleasure  and  pain  are  empty 
words  to  me ; what  I long  for  is  knowledge,  — some 
other  knowledge  than  comes  to  us  in  formal,  colorless, 
impersonal  precept.  You  would  understand  all  this 
better  if  you  could  breathe  for  an  hour  the  musty  in- 
door atmosphere  in  which  I have  always  lived.  To 
break  a window  and  let  in  light  and  air,  — I feel  as  if 
at  last  I must  act ! ” 

“ Act,  by  all  means,  now  and  always,  when  you 
have  a chance,”  I answered.  “ But  don’t  take  things 
too  hard,  now  or  ever.  Your  long  seclusion  makes  you 
think  the  world  better  worth  knowing  than  you  ’re 
likely  to  find  it.  A man  with  as  good  a head  and 
heart  as  yours  has  a very  ample  world  within  himself, 
and  I’m  no  believer  in  art  for  art,  nor  in  what’s  called 
‘ life  ’for  life’s  sake.  Nevertheless,  take  your  plunge, 
and  come  and  tell  me  whether  you ’ve  found  the  pearl 
of  wisdom.”  He  frowned  a little,  as  if  he  thought  my 
sympathy  a trifle  meagre.  I shook  him  by  the  hand 
and  laughed.  “ The  pearl  of  wisdom,”  I cried,  “ is 
love ; honest  love  in  the  most  convenient  concentra- 
tion of  experience  ! I advise  you  to  fall  in  love.”  He 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


201 


gave  me  no  smile  in  response,  but  drew  from  his 
pocket  the  letter  of  which  I Ve  spoken,  held  it  up, 
and  shook  it  solemnly.  “ What  is  it  ? ” I asked. 

“ It ’s  my  sentence  ! ” 

" Not  of  death,  I hope  ! ” 

“ Of  marriage.” 

“ With  whom  ? ” 

“With  a person  I don’t  love.” 

This  was  serious.  I stopped  smiling  and  begged 
him  to  explain. 

“ It ’s  the  singular  part  of  my  story,”  he  said  at 
last.  "It  will  remind  you  of  an  old-fashioned  ro- 
mance. Such  as  I sit  here,  talking  in  this  wild  way, 
and  tossing  off  invitations  to  destiny,  my  destiny  is 
settled  and  sealed.  I ’m  engaged,  — I’m  given  in 
marriage.  It ’s  a bequest  of  the  past,  — the  past  I 
never  said  nay  to ! The  marriage  was  arranged  by 
my  father,  years  ago,  when  I was  a boy.  The  young 
girl’s  father  was  his  particular  friend;  he  was  also  a 
widower,  and  was  bringing  up  his  daughter,  on  his 
side,  in  the  same  rigid  seclusion  in  which  I was 
spending  my  days.  To  this  day,  I ’m  unacquainted 
with  the  origin  of  the  bond  of  union  between  our 
respective  progenitors.  Mr.  Yernor  was  largely  en- 
gaged in  business,  and  I imagine  that  once  upon  a 
time  he  found  himself  in  a financial  strait  and  was 
helped  through  it  by  my  father’s  coming  forward  with 
9* 


202 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


a heavy  loan,  on  which,  in  his  situation,  he  could  offer 
no  security  but  his  word.  Of  this  my  father  was  quite 
capable.  He  was  a man  of  dogmas,  and  he  was  sure 
to  have  a precept  adapted  to  the  conduct  of  a gen- 
tleman toward  a friend  in  pecuniary  embarrassment. 
What ’s  more,  he  was  sure  to  adhere  to  it.  Mr.  Ver- 
nor,  I believe,  got  on  his  feet,  paid  his  debt,  and  owed 
my  father  an  eternal  gratitude.  His  little  daughter 
was  the  apple  of  his  eye,  and  he  pledged  himself  to 
bring  her  up  to  be  the  wife  of  his  benefactor’s  son. 
So  our  fate  was  fixed,  parentally,  and  we  have  been 
educated  for  each  other.  I ’ve  not  seen  my  betrothed 
since  she  was  a very  plain-faced  little  girl  in  a sticky 
pinafore,  hugging  a one-armed  doll  — of  the  male  sex, 
I believe  — as  big  as  herself.  Mr.  Yernor  is  in  what’s 
called  the  Eastern  trade,  and  has  been  living  these 
many  years  at  Smyrna.  Isabel  has  grown  up  there 
in  a wliite-walled  garden,  in  an  orange  grove,  between 
her  father  and  her  governess.  She  is  a good  deal  my 
junior;  six  months  ago  she  was  seventeen;  when  she 
is  eighteen  we  ’re  to  marry  ! ” 

He  related  all  this  calmly  enough,  without  the  ac- 
cent of  complaint,  dryly  rather  and  doggedly,  as  if  he 
were  weary  of  thinking  of  it.  “ It ’s  a romance  in- 
deed,” I said,  “for  these  dull  days,  and  I heartily 
congratulate  you.  It ’s  not  every  young  man  who 
finds,  on  reaching  the  marrying  age,  a wife  kept  in 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


203 


cotton  for  him.  A thousand  to  one  Miss  Yernor  is 
charming ; I wonder  you  don’t  post  off  to  Smyrna.” 

“ You  ’re  joking,”  he  answered,  with  a wounded  air, 

“ and  I am  terribly  serious.  Let  me  tell  you  the  rest. 

I never  suspected  this  tender  conspiracy  till  something 
less  than  a year  ago.  My  father,  wishing  to  provide 
against  his  death,  informed  me  of  it,  solemnly.  I was 
neither  elate.d  nor  depressed;  I received  it,  as  I re- 
member, with  a sort  of  emotion  which  varied  only  in 
degree  from  that  with  which  I could  have  hailed  the 
announcement  that  he  had  ordered  me  a dozen  new 
shirts.  I supposed  that  it  was  under  some  such  punc- 
tual, superterrestrial  dispensation  as  this  that  all  young  • 
men  were  married.  Novels  and  poems  indeed  said 
otherwise ; but  novels  and  poems  were  one  thing  and 
life  was  another.  A short  time  afterwards  he  intro- 
duced me  to  a photograph  of  my  predestined,  who  has 
a pretty,  but  an  extremely  inanimate  face.  After  this 
his  health  failed  rapidly.  One  night  I was  sitting,  as 
I habitually  sat  for  hours,  in  his  dimly  lighted  room, 
near  his  bed,  to  which  he  had  been  confined  for  a 
week.  He  had  not  spoken  for  some  time,  and  I sup- 
posed he  was  asleep,  but  happening  to  look  at  him  I 
saw  his  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed  on  me  strangely. 
He  was  smiling  benignantly,  intensely,  and  in  a mo- 
ment he  beckoned  to  me.  Then,  on  my  going  to  him 
— ‘ I feel  that  I sha’  n’t  last  long,’  he  said,  ‘ but  I am 


204 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


willing  to  die  when  I think  how  comfortably  I have 
arranged  your  future.'  He  was  talking  of  death,  and 
anything  but  grief  at  that  moment  was  doubtless  im- 
pious and  monstrous ; but  there  came  into  my  heart 
for  the  first  time  a throbbing  sense  of  being  over- 
governed.  I said  nothing,  and  he  thought  my  silence 
was  all  sorrow.  ‘ I sha’  n't  live  to  see  you  married,' 
he  went  on,  ‘but  since  the  foundation  is  laid,  that 
little  signifies;  it  would  be  a selfish  pleasure,  and  I 
have  never  had  a thought  but  for  your  own  personal 
advantage.  To  foresee  your  future,  in  its  main  outline, 
to  know  to  a certainty  that  you  '11  be  safely  domiciled 
• here,  with  a wife  approved  by  my  judgment,  cultivat- 
ing the  moral  fruit  of  which  I have  sown  the  seed,  — 
this  will  content  me.  But,  my  son,  I wish  to  clear 
this  bright  vision  from  the  shadow  of  a doubt.  I 
believe  in  your  docility;  I believe  I may  trust  the 
salutary  force  of  your  respect  for  my  memory.  But  I 
must  remember  that  when  I am  removed,  you  will 
stand  here  alone,  face  to  face  with  a myriad  name- 
less temptations  to  perversity.  The  fumes  of  un- 
righteous pride  may  rise  into  your  brain  and  tempt 
you,  in  the  interest  of  a vain  delusion  which  it 
will  call  your  independence,  to  shatter  the  edifice 
I have  so  laboriously  constructed.  So  I must  ask 
you  for  a promise,  — the  solemn  promise  you  owe  my 
condition.'  And  he  grasped  my  hand.  ‘You  will 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


205 


follow  the  path  I have  marked;  you  will  be  faithful 
to  the  young  girl  whom  an  influence  as  devoted  as  that 
which  has  governed  your  own  young  life  has  moulded 
into  everything  amiable;  you  will  marry  Isabel  Ver- 
nor.’  There  was  something  portentous  in  this  rigid 
summons.  I was  frightened.  I drew  away  my  hand 
and  asked  to  be  trusted  without  any  such  terrible  vow. 
My  reluctance  startled  my  father  into  a suspicion  that 
the  vain  delusion  of  independence  had  already  been 
whispering  to  me.  He  sat  up  in  his  bed  and  looked 
at  me  with  eyes  which  seemed  to  foresee  a lifetime 
of  odious  ingratitude.  I felt  the  reproach;  I feel  it 
now.  I promised ! And  even  now  I don’t  regret  my 
promise  nor  complain  of  my  father’s  tenacity.  I feel, 
somehow,  as  if  the  seeds  of  ultimate  rest  had  been 
sown  in  those  unsuspecting  years,  — as  if  after  many 
days  I might  gather  the  mellow  fruit.  But  after  many 
days ! I ’ll  keep  my  promise,  I ’ll  obey ; but  I want 
to  live  first ! ” 

“ My  dear  fellow,  you  ’re  living  now.  All  this 
passionate  consciousness  of  your  situation  is  a very 
ardent  life.  I wish  I could  say  as  much  for  my. 
own.” 

“ I want  to  forget  my  situation.  I want  to  spend 
three  months  without  thinking  of  the  past  or  the 
future,  grasping  whatever  the  present  offers  me. 
Yesterday,  I thought  I was  in  a fair  way  to  sail  with 


206 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


the  tide.  Bat  this  morning  comes  this  memento  !” 
And  he  held  up  his  letter  again. 

“ What  is  it  ? ” 

“ A letter  from  Smyrna.” 

“ I see  you  have  not  yet  broken  the  seal.” 

“ No,  nor  do  I mean  to,  for  the  present.  It  contains 
bad  news.” 

“ What  do  you  call  bad  news  ? ” 

“ News  that  I ’m  expected  in  Smyrna  in  three  weeks. 
News  that  Mr.  Yernor  disapproves  of  my  roving  about 
the  world.  News  that  his  daughter  is  standing  expect- 
ant at  the  altar.” 

Is  n’t  this  pure  conjecture  ? ” 

“ Conjecture,  possibly,  but  safe  conjecture.  As  soon 
as  I looked  at  the  letter,  something  smote  me  at  the 
heart.  Look  at  the  device  on  the  seal,  and  I ’m  sure 
you  ’ll  find  it ’s  Tarry  not  ! ” And  he  flung  the  letter 
on  the  grass. 

“ Upon  my  word,  you  had  better  open  it,”  I said. 

“ If  I were  to  open  it  and  read  my  summons,  do  you 
know  what  I should  do  ? I should  march  home  and 
ask  the  Oberkellner  how  one  gets  to  Smyrna,  pack  my 
trunk,  take  my  ticket,  and  not  stop  till  I arrived.  I 
know  I should ; it  would  be  the  fascination  of  habit. 
The  only  way,  therefore,  to  wander  to  my  rope’s  end 
is  to  leave  the  letter  unread.” 

“ In  your  place,”  I said,  “ curiosity  would  make  me 
open  it.” 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


207 


He  shook  his  head.  “ I have  no  curiosity ! For 
these  many  weeks  the  idea  of  my  marriage  has  ceased 
to  be  a novelty,  and  I have  contemplated  it  mentally 
in  every  possible  light.  I fear  nothing  from  that  side, 
but  I do  fear  something  from  conscience.  I want  my 
hands  tied.  Will  you  do  me  a favor  ? Pick  up  the 
letter,  put  it  into  your  pocket,  and  keep  it  till  I ask 
you  for  it.  When  I do,  you  may  know  that  I am  at 
my  rope’s  end.” 

I took  the  letter,  smiling.  “ And  how  long  is  your 
rope  to  be  ? The  Homburg  season  does  n’t  last  for- 
ever.” 

“ Does  it  last  a month  ? Let  that  be  my  season  ! A 
month  hence  you  ’ll  give  it  back  to  me.” 

“ To-morrow,  if  you  say  so.  Meanwhile,  let  it  rest  in 
peace  ! ” And  I consigned  it  to  the  most  sacred  inter- 
stice of  my  pocket-book.  To  say  that  I was  disposed 
to  humor  the  poor  fellow  would  seem  to  be  saying  that 
I thought  his  demand  fantastic.  It  was  his  situation, 
by  no  fault  of  his  own,  that  was  fantastic,  and  he  was 
only  trying  to  be  natural.  He  watched  me  put  away 
the  letter,  and  when  it  had  disappeared  gave  a soft  sigh 
of  relief.  The  sigh  was  natural,  and  yet  it  set  me 
thinking.  His  general  recoil  from  an  immediate  re- 
sponsibility imposed  by  others,  might  be  wholesome 
enough ; but  if  there  was  an  old  grievance  on  one  side, 
was  there  not  possibly  a new-born  delusion  on  the 


208 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


other  ? It  would  be  unkind  to  withhold  a reflection 
that  might  serve  as  a warning ; so  I told  him,  abruptly, 
that  I had  been  an  undiscovered  spectator,  the  night 
before,  of  his  exploits  at  roulette. 

He  blushed  deeply,  but  he  met  my  eyes  with  the 
same  radiant  frankness. 

“Ah,  you  saw  then,”  he  cried,  “that  wonderful 
lady?” 

“Wonderful  she  was  indeed.  I saw  her  afterwards, 
too,  sitting  on  the  terrace  in  the  starlight.  I imagine 
she  was  .not  alone.” 

“ No,  indeed,  I was  with  her  — for  nearly  an  hour. 
Then  I walked  home  with  her.” 

“ Yerily  ! And  did  you  go  in  ? ” 

“ No,  she  said  it  was  too  late  to  ask  me  ; though  in 
a general  way,  she  declared  she  did  not  stand  upon 
ceremony.” 

“ She  did  herself  injustice.  When  it  came  to  losing 
your  money  for  you,  she  made  you  insist.” 

“ Ah,  you  noticed  that  too  ? ” cried  Pickering,  still 
quite  unconfused.  “I  felt  as  if  the  whole  table  was 
staring  at  me;  but  her  manner  was  so  gracious  and 
reassuring  that  I concluded  she  was  doing  nothing  un- 
usual. She  confessed,  however,  afterwards,  that  she  is 
very  eccentric.  The  world  began  to  call  her  so,  she 
said,  before  she  ever  dreamed  of  it,  and  at  last  finding 
that  she  had  the  reputation,  in  spite  of  herself,  she 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


209 


resolved  to  enjoy  its  privileges.  Now,  she  does  what 
she  chooses.’’ 

“ In  other  words,  she  is  a lady  with  no  reputation  to 
lose?” 

Pickering  seemed  puzzled,  and  smiled  a little.  “ Is 
n’t  that  what  you  say  of  bad  women  ? ” 

“ Of  some  — of  those  who  are  found  out.” 

"Well,”  he  said,  still  smiling,  “ I have  n’t  yet  found 
out  Madame  Blumenthal.” 

" If  that ’s  her  name,  I suppose  she ’s  German.” 

"Yes;  but  she  speaks  English  so  well  that  you 
might  almost  doubt  it.  She  is  very  clever.  Her  hus- 
band ’s  dead.” 

I laughed,  involuntarily,  at  the  conjunction  of  these 
facts,  and  Pickering’s  clear  glance  seemed  to  question 
my  mirth.  “ You  have  been  so  bluntly  frank  with 
me,”  I said,  "that  I too  must  be  frank.  Tell  me,  if 
you  can,  whether  this  clever  Madame  Blumenthal, 
whose  husband  is  dead,  has  given  an  edge  to  your  de- 
sire for  a suspension  of  communication  with  Smyrna.” 

He  seemed  to  ponder  my  question,  unshrinkingly. 
" I think  not,”  he  said,  at  last.  " I ’ve  had  the  desire 
for  three  months;  I ’ve  known  Madame  Blumenthal  for 
less  than  twenty-four  hours.” 

"Very  true.  But  when  you  found  this  letter  of 
yours  on  your  plate  at  breakfast,  did  you  seem  for  a 
moment  to  see  Madame  Blumenthal  sitting  opposite  ? ” 


N 


210 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


“ Opposite  ? ” he  repeated,  frowning  gently. 

“ Opposite,  my  dear  fellow,  or  anywhere  in  the 
neighborhood.  In  a word,  does  she  interest  you  ? ” 

“Very  much!”  he  cried,  with  his  frown  clearing 
away. 

“ Amen ! ” I answered,  jumping  up  with  a laugh. 
“ And  now,  if  we  are  to  see  the  world  in  a month, 
there  is  no  time  to  lose.  Let  us  begin  with  the  Hardt- 
wald.” 

Pickering  rose,  and  we  strolled  away  into  the  forest, 
talking  of  lighter  things.  At  last  we  reached  the  edge 
of  the  wood,  sat  down  on  a fallen  log,  and  looked  out 
across  an  interval  of  meadow  at  the  long  wooded  waves 
of  the  Taunus.  What  my  friend  was  thinking  of,  I 
can’t  say ; I was  revolving  his  quaint  history  and  let- 
ting my  wonderment  wander  away  to  Smyrna.  Sud- 
denly I remembered  that  he  possessed  a portrait  of 
the  young  girl  who  was  waiting  for  him  there  in  a 
white-walled  garden.  I asked  him  if  he  had  it  with 
him.  He  said  nothing,  but  gravely  took  out  his 
pocket-book  and  drew  forth  a small  photograph.  It 
represented,  as  the  poet  says,  a simple  maiden  in  her 
flower,  — a slight  young  girl,  with  a certain  childish 
roundness  of  contour.  There  was  no  ease  in  her  pos- 
ture ; she  was  standing,  stiffly  and  shyly,  for  her  like- 
ness ; she  wore  a short- waisted  white  dress ; her  arms 
hung  at  her  sides  and  her  hands  were  clasped  in 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


211 


front;  her  head  was  bent  downward  a little,  and  her 
dark  eyes  fixed.  But  her  awkwardness  was  as  pretty 
as  that  of  some  angular  seraph  in  a mediaeval  carving, 
and  in  her  sober  gaze  there  seemed  to  lurk  the  ques- 
tioning gleam  of  childhood.  “ What  is  this  for  ? ” her 
charming  eyes  appeared  to  ask ; “ why  have  I been 
decked,  for  this  ceremony,  in  a white  frock  and  amber 
beads  ? ” 

“ Gracious  powers  ! ” I said  to  myself ; “ what  an 
enchanting  thing  is  innocence ! ” 

“ That  portrait  was  taken  a year  and  a half  ago,” 
said  Pickering,  as  if  with  an  effort  to  be  perfectly  just. 

“ By  this  time,  I suppose,  she  looks  a little  wiser.” 

“Not  much,  I hope,”  I said,  as  I gave  it  back. 

“ She ’s  lovely  ! ” 

“ Yes,  poor  girl,  she ’s  lovely  — no  doubt ! ” And  he  - 
put  the  thing  away  without  looking  at  it. 

We  were  silent  for  some  moments.  At  last,  ab- 
ruptly : “ My  dear  fellow,”  I said,  “ I should  take  some 
satisfaction  in  seeing  you  immediately  leave  Homburg.” 

“ Immediately  ? ” 

“ To-day  — as  soon  as  you  can  get  ready.” 

He  looked  at  me,  surprised,  and  little  by  little  he 
blushed.  “ There ’s  something  I ’ve  not  told  you,”  he 
said ; “ something  that  your  saying  that  Madame  Blu- 
menthal  has  no  reputation  to  lose  has  made  me  half 
afraid  to  tell  you.” 


212 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


“ I $iink  I can  guess  it.  Madame  Bliimenthal  has 
asked  you  to  come  and  check  her  numbers  for  her  at 
roulette  again.” 

“Not  at  all!”  cried  Pickering,  with  a smile  of 
triumph.  “She  says  that  she  plays  no  more,  for  the 
present.  She  has  asked  me  to  come  and  take  tea  with 
her  this  evening.” 

“ Ah,  then,”  I said,  very  gravely,  “ of  course  you 
can’t  leave  Homburg  ” 

He  answered  nothing,  but  looked  askance  at  me,  as 
if  he  were  expecting  me  to  laugh.  “ Urge  it  strongly,” 
he  said  in  a moment.  “ Say  it ’s  my  duty,  — command 
me.” 

I didn’t  quite  understand  him,  but,  feathering  the 
shaft  with  a harmless  expletive,  I told  him  that  unless 
he  followed  my  advice,  I would  never  speak  to  him 
again. 

He  got  up,  stood  before  me,  and  struck  the  ground 
with  his  stick.  “ Good ! ” he  cried.  “ I wanted  an 
occasion  to  break  a rule,  — to  leap  an  obstacle.  Here 
it  is  ! I stay  ! ” 

I made  him  a mock  bow  for  his  energy.  “ That ’s 
very  fine,”  I said ; “ but  now,  to  put  you  in  a proper 
mood  for  Madame  Blumenthal’s  tea,  we  ’ll  go  and  lis- 
ten to  the  band  play  Schubert  under  the  lindens.” 
And  we  walked  back  through  the  woods. 

I went  to  see  Pickering  the  next  day,  at  his  inn, 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


213 


and  on  knocking,  as  directed,  at  his  door,  was  surprised 
to  hear  the  sound  of  a loud  voice  within.  My  knock 
remained  unnoticed,  so  I presently  introduced  myself. 
I found  no  company,  but  I discovered  my  friend  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  room  and  apparently  declaiming 
to  himself  from  a little  volume  bound  in  white  vellum. 
He  greeted  me  heartily,  threw  his  book  on  the  table, 
and  said  that  he  was  taking  a German  lesson. 

“ And  who  is  your  teacher  ? ” I asked,  glancing  at 
the  book. 

He  rather  avoided  meeting  my  eye,  as  he  an- 
swered, after  an  instant’s  delay,  “ Madame  Blumen- 
thal.” 

“ Indeed  ! Has  she  written  a grammar  ? ” I in- 
quired. 

“ It ’s  not  a grammar ; it ’s  a tragedy.”  And  he 
handed  me  the  book. 

I opened  it,  and  beheld,  in  delicate  type,  in  a very 
large  margin,  a Trauerspiel  in  five  acts,  entitled  Cleo- 
patra. There  were  a great  many  marginal  corrections 
and  annotations,  apparently  from  the  author’s  hand ; 
the  speeches  were  very  long,  and  there  was  an  inor- 
dinate number  of  soliloquies  by  the  heroine.  One 
of  them,  I remember,  toward  the  end  of  the  play, 
began  in  this  fashion  : — 

“What,  after  all,  is  life  but  sensation,  and  sensa- 
tion but  deception?  — reality  that  pales  before  the 


214 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


light  of  one’s  dreams,  as  Octavia’s  dull  beauty  fades 
beside  mine  ? But  let  me  believe  in  some  intenser 
bliss  and  seek  it  in  the  arms  of  death  ! ” 

“ It  seems  decidedly  passionate,”  I said.  “ Has  the 
tragedy  ever  been  acted  ? ” 

“ Never  in  public;  but  Madame  Blumenthal  tells 
me  that  she  had  it  played  at  her  own  house  in 
Berlin,  and  that  she  herself  undertook  the  part  of 
the  heroine.” 

Pickering’s  unworldly  life  had  not  been  of  a sort 
to  sharpen  his  perception  of  the  ridiculous,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  an  unmistakable  sign  of  his  being 
under  the  charm,  that  this  information  was  very 
soberly  offered.  He  was  preoccupied,  and  irrespon- 
sive to  my  experimental  observations  on  vulgar  topics, 
— the  hot  weather,  the  inn,  the  advent  of  Adelina 
Patti.  At  last  he  uttered  his  thoughts,  and  an- 
nounced that  Madame  Blumenthal  had  turned  out 
an  extraordinarily  interesting  woman.  He  seemed  to 
have  quite  forgotten  our  long  talk  in  the  Hardtwald, 
and  betrayed  no  sense  of  this  being  a confession  that 
he  had  taken  his  plunge  and  was  floating  with  the 
current.  He  only  remembered  that  I had  spoken 
slightingly  of  the  lady  and  hinted  that  it  behooved 
me  to  amend  my  opinion.  I had  received  the  day 
before  so  strong  an  impression  of  a sort  of  spiritual 
fastidiousness  in  my  friend’s  nature,  that  on  hearing 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


215 


now  the  striking  of  a new  hour,  as  it  were,  in  his 
consciousness,  and  observing  how  the  echoes  of  the 
past  were  immediately  quenched  in  its  music,  I said 
to  myself  that  it  had  certainly  taken  a delicate  hand 
to  regulate  that  fine  machinery.  No  doubt  Madame 
Blumenthal  was  a clever  woman.  It  is  a good  Ger- 
man custom,  at  Homburg,  to  spend  the  hour  preced- 
ing dinner  in  listening  to  the  orchestra  in  the  Kur- 
garten ; Mozart  and  Beethoven,  for  organisms  in  which 
the  interfusion  of  soul  and  sense  is  peculiarly  mys- 
* terious,  are  a vigorous  stimulus  to  the  appetite. 
Pickering  and  I conformed,  as  we  had  done  the  day 
before,  to  the  fashion,  and  when  we  were  seated 
under  the  trees,  he  began  to  expatiate  on  his  friend’s 
merits. 

“ I don’t  know  whether  she  is  eccentric  or  not,” 
he  said ; “ to  me  every  one  seems  eccentric,  and  it ’s 
not  for  me,  yet  awhile,  to  measure  people  by  my 
narrow  precedents.  I never  saw  a gaming-table  in 
my  life  before,  and  supposed  that  a gamester  was,  of 
necessity,  some  dusky  villain  with  an  evil  eye.  In 
Germany,  says  Madame  Blumenthal,  people  play  at 
roulette  as  they  play  at  billiards,  and  her  own  vener- 
able mother  originally  taught  her  the  rules  of  the 
game.  It  is  a recognized  source  of  subsistence  for 
decent  people  with  small  means.  But  I confess 
Madame  Blumenthal  might  do  worse  things  than 


216 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


play  roulette,  and  yet  make  them  harmonious  and 
beautiful.  I have  never  been  in  the  habit  #of  think- 
ing positive  beauty  the  most  excellent  thing  in  a 
woman.  I have  always  said  to  myself  that  if  my 
heart  was  ever  to  be  captured  it  would  be  by  a sort 
of  general  grace,  — a sweetness  of  motion  and  tone, 

— on  which  one  could  count  for  soothing  impressions, 
as  one  counts  on  a musical  instrument  that  is  per- 
fectly in  tune.  Madame  Blumenthal  has  it,  — this 
grace  that  soothes  and  satisfies ; and  it  seems  the 
more  perfect  that  it  keeps  order  and  harmony  in  a 
character  really  passionately  ardent  and  active.  With 
her  multifarious  impulses  and  accomplishments  noth- 
ing would  be  easier  than  that  she  should  seem  rest- 
less and  over-eager  and  importunate.  You  will  know 
her,  and  I leave  you  to  judge  whether  she  does. 
She  has  every  gift,  and  culture  has  done  everything 
for  each.  What  goes  on  in  her  mind,  I of  course 
can’t  say ; what  reaches  the  observer  — the  admirer 

— is  simply  a penetrating  perfume  of  intelligence, 
mingled  with  a penetrating  perfume  of  sympathy.” 

“ Madame  Blumenthal,”  I said,  smiling,  “ might  be 
the  loveliest  woman  in  the  world,  and  you  the  ob- 
ject of  her  choicest  favors,  and  yet  what  I should 
most  envy  you  would  be,  not  your  peerless  friend, 
but  your  beautiful  imagination.” 

“ That ’s  a polite  way  of  calling  me  a fool,”  said 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


217 


Pickering.  “ You  ’re  a sceptic,  a cynic,  a satirist ! I 
hope  I shall  be  a long  time  coming  to  that.” 

“ You  ’ll  make  the  journey,  fast  if  you  travel  by 
express  trains.  But  pray  tell  me,  have  you  ventured 
to  intimate  to  Madame  Blumenthal  your  high  opin- 
ion of  her?” 

“ I don’t  know  what  I may  have  said.  She  lis- 
tens even  better  than  she  talks,  and  I think  it  pos- 
sible I may  have  made  her  listen  to  a great  deal 
of  nonsense.  For  after  the  first  few  words  I ex- 
changed with  her  I was  conscious  of  an  extraordi- 
nary evaporation  of  all  my  old  diffidence.  I have, 
in  truth,  I suppose,”  he  added,  in  a moment,  “ owing 
to  my  peculiar  circumstances,  a great  accumulated 
fund  of  unuttered  things  of  all  sorts  to  get  rid  of. 
Last  evening,  sitting  there  before  that  lovely  woman, 
they  came  swarming  to.  my  lips.  Very  likely  I 
poured  them  all  out.  I have  a sense  of  having 
enshrouded  myself  in  a sort  of  mist  of  talk,  and 
of  seeing  her  lovely  eyes  shining  through  it  oppo- 
site to  me,  like  stars  above  a miasmatic  frog-pond.” 
And  here,  if  I remember  rightly,  Pickering  broke 
off  into  an  ardent  parenthesis,  and  declared  that 
Madame  Blumenthal’s  eyes  had  something  in  them 
that  he  had  never  seen  in  any  others.  “ It  was 
a jumble  of  crudities  and  inanities,”  he  went  on, 
“ which  must  have  seemed  to  her  terribly  farcical ; 

10 


218 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


but  I feel  the  wiser  and  the  stronger,  somehow,  for 
having  poured  them  out  before  her ; and  I imagine 
I might  have  gone  far  without  finding  another  wo- 
man in  whom  such  an  exhibition  would  have  pro- 
voked so  little  of  mere  cold  amusement.” 

“ Madame  Blumenthal,  on  the  contrary,”  I sur- 
mised, “ entered  into  your  situation  with  warmth.” 

“ Exactly  so,  — the  greatest ! She ’s  wise,  she  knows, 
she  has  felt,  she  has  suffered,  and  now  she  understands  ! ” 

“ She  told  you,  I imagine,  that  she  understood  you 
to  a t , and  she  offered  to  be  your  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend.” 

“ She  spoke  to  me,”  Pickering  answered,  after  a 
pause,  “ as  I had  never  been  spoken  to  before,  and  she 
offered  me,  in  effect,  formally,  all  the  offices  of  a 
woman’s  friendship.” 

“ Which  you  as  formally  accepted  ? ” 

“ To  you  the  scene  sounds  absurd,  I suppose,  but 
allow  ne  to  say  I don’t  care ! ” Pickering  cried,  with 
an  air  of  genial  aggression  which  was  the  most  inof- 
fensive thing  in  the  world.  “I  was  very  much  moved; 
I was,  in  fact,  very  much  excited.  I tried  to  say 
something,  but  I could  n’t ; I had  had  plenty  to  say 
before,  but  now  I stammered  and  bungled,  and  at  last 
I took  refuge  in  an  abrupt  retreat.” 

" Meanwhile  she  had  dropped  her  tragedy  into  your 
pocket ! ” 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


219 


“Not  at  all.  I liad  seen  it  on  the  table  before  she 
came  in.  Afterwards  she  kindly  offered  to  read  Ger- 
man aloud  with  me,  for  the  accent,  two  or  three  times 
a week.  ‘What  shall  we  begin  with?’  she  asked. 

‘ With  this  ! ’ I said,  and  held  up  the  book.  And  she 
let  me  take  it  to  look  it  over.,, 

I was  neither  a cynic  nor  a satirist,  but  even  if  I 
had  been,  I might  have  had  my  claws  clipped  by 
Pickering’s  assurance,  before  we  parted,  that  Madame 
Blumenthal  wished  to  know  me  and  expected  him  to 
introduce  me.  Among  the  foolish  things  which,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  account,  he  had  uttered,  were  some 
generous  words  in  my  praise,  to  which  she  had  civilly 
replied.  I confess  I was  curious  to  see  her,  but  I 
begged  that  the  introduction  should  not  be  immediate. 
I wished,  on  the  one  hand,  to  let  Pickering  work 
out  his  destiny  without  temptation,  on  my  part,  to 
play  providence;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  I had  at 
Homburg  a group  of  friends  with  whom  for  another 
week  I had  promised  to  spend  my  leisure  hours.  For 
some  days  I saw  little  of  Pickering,  though  we  met  at 
the  Kursaal  and  strolled  occasionally  in  the  park.  I 
watched,  in  spite  of  my  desire  to  let  him  alone,  for  the 
signs  and  portents  of  the  world’s  action  upon  him,  — 
of  that  portion  of  the  world,  in  especial,  which  Madame 
Blumenthal  had  gathered  up  into  her  comprehensive 
soul.  He  seemed  very  happy,  and  gave  me  in  a dozen 


220 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


ways  an  impression  of  increased  self-confidence  and 
maturity.  His  mind  was  admirably  active,  and  al- 
ways, after  a quarter  of  an  hour’s  talk  with  him,  I 
asked  myself  what  experience  could  really  do,  that 
seclusion  had  not,  to  make  it  bright  and  fine.  Every 
now  and  then  I was  struck  with  his  deep  enjoyment 
of  some  new  spectacle,  — often  trifling  enough,  — some- 
thing foreign,  local,  picturesque,  some  detail  of  manner, 
some  accident  of  scenery ; and  of  the  infinite  freedom 
with  which  he  felt  he  could  go  and  come  and  rove 
and  linger  and  observe  it  all.  It  was  an  expansion, 
an  awakening,  a coming  to  manhood  in  a graver  fash- 
ion ; as  one  might  arrive  somewhere,  after  delays,  in 
some  quiet  after-hour  which  should  transmute  disap- 
pointment into  gratitude  for  the  preternatural  vivid- 
ness of  first  impressions.  Each  time  I met  him  he 
spoke  a little  less  of  Madame  Blumenthal,  but  let  me 
know  generally  that  he  saw  her  often,  and  continued 
to  admire  her  — tremendously  ! I was  forced  to  admit 
to  myself,  in  spite  of  preconceptions,  that  if  she  was 
really  the  ruling  star  of  this  serene  efflorescence,  she 
must  be  a very  fine  woman.  Pickering  had  the  air 
of  an  ingenuous  young  philosopher  sitting  at  the  feet 
of  an  austere  muse,  and  not  of  a sentimental  spend- 
thrift dangling  about  some  supreme  incarnation  of 
levity. 


II. 


ADAME  BLUMENTHAL  seemed,  for  the  time, 


J-VJL  to  have  abjured  the  Kursaal,  and  I never 
caught  a glimpse  of  her.  Her  young  friend,  appar- 
ently, was  an  interesting  study ; she  wished  to  pursue 
it  undiverted. 

She  reappeared,  however,  at  last,  one  evening  at  the 
opera,  where  from  my  chair  I perceived  her  in  a box, 
looking  extremely  pretty.  Adelina  Patti  was  singing, 
and  after  the  rising  of  the  curtain  I was  occupied  with 
the  stage ; but  on  looking  round  when  it  fell  for  the 
entr ’ acte , I saw  that  the  authoress  of  Cleopatra  had 
been  joined  by  her  young  admirer.  He  was  sitting  a 
little  behind  her,  leaning  forward,  looking  over  her 
shoulder,  arjd  listening,  while  she,  slowly  moving  her 
fan  to  and  fro  and  letting  her  eye  wander  over  the 
house,  was  apparently  talking  of  this  person  and  that. 
No  doubt  she  was  saying  sharp  things ; but  Pickering 
was  not  laughing ; his  eyes  were  following  her  covert 
indications  ; his  mouth  was  half  open,  as  it  always  was 
when  he  was  interested ; he  looked  intensely  serious. 
I was  glad  that,  having  her  back  to  him,  she  was 


222 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


■unable  to  see  how  he  looked.  It  seemed  the  proper 
moment  to  present  myself  and  make  her  my  bow ; 
but  just  as  I was  about  to  leave  my  place,  a gentleman, 
whom  in  a moment  I perceived  to  be  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, came  to  occupy  the  next  chair.  Becognition  and 
mutual  greetings  followed,  and  I was  forced  to  post- 
pone my  visit  to  Madame  Blumenthal.  I was  not 
sorry,  for  it  very  soon  occurred  to  me  that  Niedermeyer 
would  be  just  the  man  to  give  me  a fair  prose  version 
of  Pickering’s  lyrical  tributes  to  his  friend.  He  was 
an  Austrian  by  birth,  and  had  formerly  lived  about 
Europe  a great  deal,  in  a series  of  small  diplomatic 
posts.  England  especially  he  had  often  visited,  and 
he  spoke  the  language  almost  without  accent.  I had 
once  spent  three  rainy  days  with  him  in  the  house 
of  an  English  friend  in  the  country.  He  was  a sharp 
observer  and  a good  deal  of  a gossip ; he  knew  a little 
something  about  every  one,  and  about  some  people 
everything.  His  knowledge  on  social  matters  gen- 
erally had  the  flavor  of  all  German  science;  it  was 
copious,  minute,  exhaustive.  “Do  tell  me,”  I said,. as 
we  stood  looking  round  the  house,  “ who  and  what  is 
the  lady  in  white,  with  the  young  man  sitting  behind 
her.” 

“ Who  ? ” he  answered,  dropping  his  glass.  “ Ma- 
dame Blumenthal ! What  ? It  would  take  long  to 
say.  Be  introduced  ; it ’s  easily  done  ; you  ’ll  find  her 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


223 


charming.  Then,  after  a week,  you  11  tell  me  what 
she  is.” 

“ Perhaps  I should  n’t.  My  friend  there  has  known 
her  a week,  and  I don’t  think  he  is  yet  able  to  give 
an  accurate  account  of  her.” 

He  raised  his  glass  again,  and  after  looking  awhile, 
“ I ’m  afraid  your  friend  is  a little  — what  do  you 
call  it  ? — a little  ‘ soft.’  Poor  fellow  ! he ’s  not  the 
first.  I’ve  never  known  this  lady  that  she  had  not 
some  eligible  youth  hovering  about  in  some  such 
attitude  as  that,  undergoing  the  softening  process. 
She  looks  wonderfully  well,  from  here.  It’s  extraor- 
dinary how  those  women  last ! ” 

“You  don't  mean,  I take  it,  when  you  talk  about 
f those  women,’  that  Madame  Blumenthal  is  not  em- 
balmed, for  duration,  in  a certain  dilution  of  respect- 
ability ? ” 

“Yes  and  no.  The  sort  of  atmosphere  that  sur- 
rounds her  is  entirely  of  her  own  making.  There  is 
no  reason,  in  her  antecedents,  that  people  should 
lower  their  voice  when  they  speak  of  her.  But  some 
women  are  never  at  their  ease  till  they  have  given 
some  odd  twist  or  other  to  their  position  before  the 
world.  The  attitude  of  upright  virtue  is  unbecoming, 
like  sitting  too  straight  in  a fauteuil.  Don’t  ask  me 
for  opinions,  however;  content  yourself  with  a few 
facts,  and  an  anecdote.  Madame  Blumenthal  is  Prus- 


224 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


sian,  and  very  well  born.  I remember  her  mother, 
an  old  Westphalian  Grafin,  with  principles  marshalled 
out  like  Frederick  the  Great’s  grenadiers.  She  was 
poor,  however,  and  her  principles  were  an  insufficient 
dowry  for  Anastasia,  who  was  married  very  young 
to  a shabby  Jew,  twice  her  own  age.  He  was  sup- 
posed to  have  money,  but  I ’m  afraid  he  had  less 
than  was  nominated  in  the  bond,  or  else  that  his 
pretty  young  wife  spent  it  very  fast.  She  has  been 
a widow  these  six  or  eight  years,  and  living,  I im- 
agine, in  rather  a hand-to-mouth  fashion.  I sup- 
pose she  is  some  thirty-four  or  five  years  old.  In 
winter  one  hears  of  her  in  Berlin,  giving  little  sup- 
pers to  the  artistic  rabble  there ; in  summer  one  often 
sees  her  across  the  green  table  at  Ems  and  Wiesba- 
den. She ’s  very  clever,  and  her  cleverness  has 
spoiled  her.  A year  after  her  marriage  she  pub- 
lished a novel,  with  her  views  on  matrimony,  in  the 
George  Sand  manner,  but  really  out-Heroding  Herod. 
No  doubt  she  was  very  unhappy;  Blumenthal  was 
an  old  beast.  Since  then  she  has  published  a lot  of 
stuff,  — novels  and  poems  and  pamphlets  on  every 
conceivable  theme,  from  the  conversion  of  Lola  Mon- 
tez,  to  the  Hegelian  philosophy.  Her  talk  is  much 
better  than  her  writing.  Her  radical  theories  on 
matrimony  made  people  think  lightly  of  her  at  a 
time  when  her  rebellion  against  it  was  probably  only 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


225 


theoretic.  She  had  a taste  for  spinning  fine  phrases, 
she  drove  her  shuttle,  and  when  she  came  to  the 
end  of  her  yarn,  she  found  that  society  had  turned 
its  back.  She  tossed  her  head,  declared  that  at  last 
she  could  breathe  the  air  of  freedom,  and  formally 
announced  her  adhesion  to  an  ‘ intellectual  ’ life.  This 
meant  unlimited  camaraderie  with  scribblers  and 
daubers,  Hegelian  philosophers  and  Hungarian  pian- 
ists waiting  for  engagements.  But  she  has  been  ad- 
mired also  by  a great  many  really  clever  men ; there 
was  a time,  in  fact,  when  she  turned  a head  as  well 
set  on  its  shoulders  as  this  one ! ” And  Niedermeyer 
tapped  his  forehead.  “She  has  a great  charm,  and, 
literally,  I know  no  harm  of  her.  Yet  for  all  that, 
I ’m  not  going  to  speak  to  her ; I ’m  not  going  near 
her  box.  I ’m  going  to  leave  her  to  say,  if  she  does 
me  the  honor  to  observe  the  omission,  that  I too 
have  gone  over  to  the  Philistines.  It ’s  not  that ; it 
is  that  there  is  something  sinister  about  the  woman. 
I ’m  too  old  to  have  it  frighten  me,  but  I ’m  good- 
natured  enough  to  have  it  pain  me.  Her  quarrel 
with  society  has  brought  her  no  happiness,  and  her 
outward  charm  is  only  the  mask  of  a dangerous  dis- 
content. Her  imagination  is  lodged  where  her  heart 
should  be ! So  long  as  you  amuse  it,  well  and  good ; 
she  ’s  radiant.  But  the  moment  you  let  it  flag,  she ’s 
capable  of  dropping  you  without  a pang.  If  you 
10* 


o 


226 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


land  on  your  feet,  you’re  so. much  the  wiser,  simply; 
but  there  have  been  two  or  three,  I believe,  who 
have  almost  broken  their  necks  in  the  fall.” 

“ You  ’re  reversing  your  promise,”  I said,  “ and  giv- 
ing me  an  opinion,  but  not  an  anecdote.” 

“ This  is  my  anecdote.  A year  ago  a friend  of  mine 
made  her  acquaintance  in  Berlin,  and  though  he  was 
no  longer  a young  man  and  had  never  been  what ’s 
called  a susceptible  one,  he  took  a great  fancy  to 
Madame  Blumenthal.  He ’s  a major  in  the  Prussian 
artillery,  — grizzled,  grave,  a trifle  severe,  a man  every 
way  firm  in  the  faith  of  his  fathers.  It ’s  a proof  of 
Anastasia’s  charm  that  such  a man  should  have  got 
into  the  way  of  calling  on  her  every  day  for  a month. 
But  the  major  was  in  love,  or  next  door  to  it ! Every 
day  that  he  called  he  found  her  scribbling  away  at  a 
little  ormolu  table  on  a lot  of  half-sheets  of  note-paper. 
She  used  to  bid  him  sit  down  and  hold  his  tongue  for 
a quarter  of  an  hour,  till  she  had  finished  her  chapter ; 
she  was  writing  a novel,  and  it  was  promised  to  a pub- 
lisher. Clorinda,  she  confided  to  him,  was  the  name 
of  the  injured  heroine.  The  major,  I imagine,  had 
never  read  a work  of  fiction  in  his  life,  but  he  knew 
by  hearsay  that  Madame  Blumenthal’s  literature,  when 
put  forth  in  pink  covers,  was  subversive  of  several 
respectable  institutions.  Besides,  he  did  n’t  believe  in 
women  knowing  how  to  write  at  all,  and  it  irritated 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


227 


him  to  see  this  inky  goddess  scribbling  away  under 

* 

his  nose  for  the  press  ; irritated  him  the  more  that,  as 
I say,  he  was  in  love  with  her  and  that  he  ventured  to 
believe  she  had  a kindness  for  his  years  and  his  hon- 
ors. And  yet  she  was  not  such  a woman  as  he  could 
easily  ask  to  marry  him.  The  result  of  all  this  was 
that  he  fell  into  the  way  of  railing  at  her  intellectual 
pursuits  and  saying  he  should  like  to  run  his  sword 
through  her  pile  of  papers.  A woman  was  clever 
enough  w7hen  she  could  guess  her  husband’s  wishes, 
and  learned  enough  when  she  could  spell  out  her 
prayer-book.  At  last,  one  day,  Madame  Blumenthal 
flung  down  her  pen  and  announced  in  triumph  that 
she  had  finished  her  novel.  Clorinda  had  danced  her 
dance.  The  major,  by  way  of  congratulating  her,  de- 
clared that  her  novel  was  coquetry  and  vanity  and  that 
she  propagated  vicious  paradoxes  on  purpose  to  make  a 
noise  in  the  world  and  look  picturesque  and  passionate. 
He  added,  however,  that  he  loved  her  in  spite  of  her 
follies,  and  that  if  she  would  formally  abjure  them  he 
would  as  formally  offer  her  his  hand.  They  say  that  in 
certain  cases  women  like  being  frightened  and  snubbed. 
I don’t  know,  I ’m  sure ; I don’t  know  how  much 
pleasure,  on  this  occasion,  was  mingled  with  Anastasia’s 
wrath.  But  her  wrath  was  very  quiet,  and  the  major 
assured  me  it  made  her  look  terribly  handsome.  ‘ I 
have  told  you  before,’  she  says,  f that  I write  from  an 


228 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


inner  need.  I write  to  unburden  my  heart,  to  satisfy 
my  conscience.  You  call  my  poor  efforts  coquetry, 
vanity,  the  desire  to  produce  a sensation.  I can  prove 
to  you  that  it  is  the  quiet  labor  itself  I care  for,  and 
not  the  world’s  more  or  less  flattering  attention  to  it ! ’ 
And  seizing  the  manuscript  of  Clorinda  she  thrust  it 
into  the  fire.  The  major  stands  staring,  and  the  first 
thing  he  knows  she  is  sweeping  him  a great  courtesy 
and  bidding  him  farewell  forever.  Left  alone  and 
recovering  his  wits,  he  fishes  out  Clorinda  from  the 
embers  and  then  proceeds  to  thump  vigorously  at  the 
lady’s  door.  But  it  never  opened,  and  from  that  day 
to  the  day  three  months  ago  when  he  told  me  the  tale, 
he  had  not  beheld  her  again. 

“ By  Jove,  it ’s  a striking  story,”  I said.  “ But  the 
question  is,  what  does  it  prove  ? ” 

“ Several  things.  First  (what  I was  careful  not  to 
tell  my  friend),  that  Madame  Blumenthal  cared  for 
him  a trifle  more  than  he  supposed ; second,  that  he 
cares  for  her  more  than  ever ; third,  that  the  perform- 
ance was  a master  stroke,  and  that  her  allowing  him 
to  force  an  interview  upon  her  again  is  only  a question 
of  time.” 

“ And  last  ? ” I asked. 

“ This  is  another  anecdote.  The  other  day,  Unter 
den  Linden,  I saw  on  a bookseller’s  counter  a little 
pink-covered  romance : Sophronia,  by  Madame  Blu- 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


229 


menthal.  Glancing  through  it,  I observed  an  extraor- 
dinary abuse  of  asterisks  ; every  two  or  three  pages 
the  narative  was  adorned  with  a portentous  blank, 
crossed  with  a row  of  stars.” 

“ Well,  but  poor  Clorinda?”  I objected,  as  Nieder- 
meyer  paused. 

“Sophronia,  my  dear  fellow,  is  simply  Clorinda  re- 
named by  the  baptism  of  fire.  The  fair  author  comes 
back,  of  course,  and  finds  Clorinda  tumbled  upon  the 
floor,  a good  deal  scorched,  but  on  the  whole  more 
frightened  than  hurt.  She  picks  her  up,  brushes  her 
off,  and  sends  her  to  the  printer.  Wherever  the  flames 
had  burnt  a hole,  she  swings  a constellation ! But  if 
the  major  is  prepared  to  drop  a penitent  tear  over  the 
ashes  of  Clorinda,  I sha’  n’t  whisper  to  him  that  the 
urn  is  empty.” 

Even  Adelina  Patti’s  singing,  for  the  next  half-hour, 
but  half  availed  to  divert  me  from  my  quickened  curi- 
osity to  behold  Madame  Blumenthal  face  to  face.  As 
soon  as  the  curtain  had  fallen  again,  I repaired  to  her 
box  and  was  ushered  in  by  Pickering  with  zealous 
hospitality.  His  glowing  smile  seemed  to  say  to  me, 
“Ay,  look  for  yourself,  and  adore!”  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  gracious  than  the  lady’s  greeting,  and 
I found,  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  that  her  prettiness 
lost  nothing  on  a nearer  view.  Her  eyes  indeed  were 
the  finest  I have  ever  seen,  — the  softest,  the  deepest, 


230 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


the  most  intensely  responsive.  In  spite  of  something 
faded  and  jaded  in  her  physiognomy,  her  movements, 
her  smile,  and  the  tone  of  her  voice,  especially  when 
she  laughed,  had  an  almost  girlish  frankness  and  spon- 
taneity. She  looked  at  you  very  hard  with  her  radiant 
gray  eyes,  and  she  indulged  in  talking  in  a superabun- 
dance of  restless,  zealous  gestures,  as  if  to  make  you 
take  her  meaning  in  a certain  very  particular  and  rather 
superfine  sense.  I wondered  whether  after  a while 
this  might  not  fatigue  one’s  attention;  then,  meeting 
her  charming  eyes,  I said,  No ! not  for  ages,  at  least. 
She  was  very  clever,  and,  as  Pickering  had  said,  she 
spoke  English  admirably.  I told  her,  as  I took  my 
seat  beside  her,  of  the  fine  things  I had  heard  about 
her  from  my  friend,  and  she  listened,  letting  me  run 
on  some  time,  and  exaggerate  a little,  with  her  fine 
eyes  fixed  full  upon  me.  “ Eeally  ? ” she  suddenly 
said,  turning  short  round  upon  Pickering,  who  stood 
behind  us,  and  looking  at  him  in  the  same  way,  “is 
that  the  way  you  talk  about  me  ? ” 

He  blushed  to  his  eyes,  and  I repented.  She  sud- 
denly began  to  laugh;  it  was  then  I observed  how 
sweet  her  voice  was  in  laughter.  AVe  talked  after 
this  of  various  matters,  and  in  a little  while  I com- 
plimented her  on  her  excellent  English,  and  asked 
if  she  had  learned  it  in  England. 

. “ Heaven  forbid ! ” she  cried. 


“ I ’ve  never  been 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


231 


there  and  wish  never  to  go.  I should  never  get  on 
with  the  — ” I wondered  what  she  was  going  to  say  ; 
the  fogs,  the  smoke,  or  whist  with  six-penny  stakes  ? 
— “ I should  never  -get  on,”  she  said,  “ with  the  Aris- 
tocracy ! I ’m  a fierce  democrat,  I ’m  not  ashamed  of 
it.  I hold  opinions  which  would  make  my  ancestors 
turn  in  their  graves.  I was  born  in  the  lap  of  feudal- 
ism. I ’m  a daughter  of  the  crusaders.  But  I ’m  a 
revolutionist ! I have  a passion  for  freedom,  — bound- 
less, infinite,  ineffable  freedom.  It ’s  to  your  great 
country  I should  like  to  go.  I should  like  to  see 
the  wonderful  spectacle  of  a great  people  free  to  do 
everything  it  chooses,  and  yet  never  doing  anything 
wrong ! ” 

I replied,  modestly,  that,  after  all,  both  our  freedom 
and  our  virtue  had  their  limits,  and  she  turned  quickly 
about  and  shook  her  fan  with  a dramatic  gesture  at 
Pickering.  “No  matter,  no  matter!”  she  cried,  “I 
should  like  to  see  the  country  which  produced  that 
wonderful  young  man.  I think  of  it  as  a sort  of 
Arcadia,  — a land  of  the  golden  age.  He ’s  so  de- 
lightfully innocent ! In  this  stupid  old  Germany,  if 
a young  man  is  innocent,  he ’s  a fool ; he  has  no 
brains ; he ’s  not  a bit  interesting.  But  Mr.  Picker- 
ing says  the  most  naif  things,  and  after  I have  laughed 
five  minutes  at  their  simplicity,  it  suddenly  occurs 
to  me  that  they  are  very  wise,  and  I think  them 


232 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


over  for  a week.  True!”  she  went  on,  nodding  at 
him.  “ I call  them  inspired  solecisms,  and  I treasure 
them  np.  Bemember  that  when  I next  laugh  at 
you ! ” 

Glancing  at  Pickering,  I was  prompted  to  believe 
that  he  was  in  a state  of  beatific  exaltation  which 
weighed  Madame  Blumenthal’s  smiles  and  frowns  in 
an  equal  balance.  They  were  equally  hers  ; they  were 
links  alike  in  the  golden  chain.  He  looked  at  me 
with  eyes  that  seemed  to  say,  “ Did  you  ever  hear  such 
wit  ? Did  you  ever  see  such  grace  ? ” I imagine  he 
was  but  vaguely  conscious  of  the  meaning  of  her 
words  ; her  gestures,  her  voice  and  glance,  made  an 
irresistible  harmony.  There  is  something  painful  in 
the  spectacle  of  absolute  inthralment,  even  to  an  ex- 
cellent cause.  I gave  no  response  to  Pickerings  chal- 
lenge, but  embarked  upon  some  formal  tribute  to  the 
merits  of  Adelina  Pattis  singing.  Madame  Blumen- 
thal,  as  became  a “ revolutionist,”  was  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  she  could  see  no  charm  in  it ; it  was  meagre, 
it  was  trivial,  it  lacked  soul.  “ You  must  know  that 
in  music,  too,”  she  said,  “ I think  for  myself ! ” And 
she  began  with  a great  many  flourishes  of  her  fan  to 
expound  what  it  was  she  thought.  Bemarkable  things, 
doubtless ; but  I cannot  answer  for  it,  for  in  the  midst 
of  the  exposition,  the  curtain  rose  again.  “ You  can’t 
be  a great  artist  without  a great  passion  ! ” Madame 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


233 


Blumenthal  was  affirming.  Before  I had  time  to  as- 
sent, Madame  Patti’s  voice  rose  wheeling  like  a sky- 
lark, and  rained  down  its  silver  notes.  “ Ah,  give  me 
that  art,”  I whispered,  “ and  I ’ll  leave  you  your  pas- 
sion ! ” And  I departed  for  my  own  place  in  the  orches- 
tra. I wondered  afterwards  whether  the  speech  had 
seemed  rude,  and  inferred  that  it  had  not,  on  receiving 
a friendly  nod  from  the  lady,  in  the  lobby,  as  the 
theatre  was  emptying  itself.  She  was  on  Pickering’s 
arm,  and  he  was  taking  her  to  her  carriage.  Distances 
are  short  in  Homburg,  but  the  night  was  rainy,  and 
Madame  Blumenthal  exhibited  a very  pretty  satin- 
shod  foot  as  a reason  why,  though  but  a penniless 
creature,  she  should  not  walk  home.  Pickering  left  us 
together  a moment  while  he  went  to  hail  the  vehicle, 
and  my  companion  seized  the  opportunity,  as  she  said, 
to  beg  me  to  be  so  very  kind  as  to  come  and  see  her. 
It  was  for  a particular  reason  ! It  was  reason  enough 
for  me,  of  course  I answered,  that  I could  grasp  at  the 
shadow  of  a permission.  She  looked  at  me  a moment 
with  that  extraordinary  gaze  of  hers,  which  seemed  so 
absolutely  audacious  in  its  candor,  and  answered  that  I 
paid  more  compliments  than  our  young  friend  there, 
but  that  she  was  sure  I was  not  half  so  sincere.  “ But 
it ’s  about  him  I want  to  talk,”  she  said.  “ I want  to 
ask  you  many  things : I want  you  to  tell  me  all  about 
him.  He  interests  me,  but  you  see  my  sympathies 


234 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


are  so  intense,  my  imagination  is  so  lively,  that  I don’t 
trust  my  own  impressions.  They  have  misled  me  more 
than  once  ! ” And  she  gave  a little  tragic  shudder. 

I promised  to  come  and  compare  notes  with  her,  and 
w7e  bade  her  farewell  at  her  carriage  door.  Pickering 
and  I remained  awhile,  walking  up  and  down  the  long 
glazed  gallery  of  the  Kursaal.  I had  not  taken  many 
steps  before  I became  aware  that  I was  beside  a man 
in  the  very  extremity  of  love.  “ Is  n’t  she  wonder- 
ful ? ” he  asked,  with  an  implicit  confidence  in  my 
sympathy  which  it  cost  me  some  ingenuity  to  elude. 
If  he  wTas  really  in  love,  well  and  good  ! For  although, 
now  that  I had  seen  her,  I stood  ready  to  confess  to 
large  possibilities  of  fascination  on  Madame  Blumen- 
thal’s  part,  and  even  to  certain  possibilities  of  sincerity 
of  which  I reserved  the  precise  admeasurement,  yet  it 
seemed  to  me  less  ominous  to  have  him  give  the  reins 
to  his  imagination  than  it  w7ould  have  been  to  see  him 
stand  off  and  cultivate  an  “ admiration  ” which  should 
pique  itself  on  being  discriminating.  It  was  on  his 
fundamental  simplicity  that  I counted  for  a happy 
termination  of  his  experiment,  and  the  former  of  these 
alternatives  seemed  to  me  to  prove  most  in  its  favor. 
I resolved  to  hold  my  tongue  and  let  him  run  his 
course.  He  had  a great  deal  to  say  about  his  happi- 
ness, about  the  days  passing  like  hours,  the  hours  like 
minutes,  and  about  Madame  Blumenthal  being  a “ rev- 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


235 


elation.”  “She  was  nothing  to-night !”  he  said;  “noth- 
ing to  what  she  sometimes  is  in  the  way  of  brilliancy, 
— in  the  way  of  repartee.  If  you  could  only  hear  her 
when  she  tells  her  adventures  ! ” 

“ Adventures  ? ” I inquired.  “ Has  she  had  adven- 
tures ? ” 

“ Of  the  most  wonderful  sort ! ” cried  Pickering,  with 
rapture.  “ She  has  n’t  vegetated,  like  me  ! She  has 
lived  in  the  tumult  of  life.  When  I listen  to  her 
reminiscences,  it ’s  like  hearing  the  opening  tumult  of 
one  of  Beethoven’s  symphonies,  as  it  loses  itself  in  a 
triumphant  harmony  of  beauty  and  faith  ! ” 

I could  only  bow,  but  I desired  to  know  before  we 
separated  what  he  had  done  with  that  troublesome 
conscience  of  his.  “ I suppose  you  know,  my  dear 
fellow,”  I said,  “ that  you  ’re  simply  in  love.  That ’s 
what  they  call  your  state  of  mind.” 

He  replied  with  a brightening  eye,  as  if  he  were 
delighted  to  hear  it.  “So  Madame  Blumenthal  told 
me,”  he  cried,  “ only  this  morning ! ” And  seeing,  I 
suppose,  that  I was  slightly  puzzled,  “ I went  to  drive 
with  her,”  he  continued  ; “ we  drove  to  Konigstein,  to 
see  the  old  castle.  We  scrambled  up  into  the  heart 
of  the  ruin  and  sat  for  an  hour  in  one  of  the  crum- 
bling old  courts.  Something  in  the  solemn  stillness 
of  the  place  unloosed  my  tongue ; and  while  she  sat 
on  an  ivied  stone,  on  the  edge  of  the  plunging  wall,  I 


236 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


stood  there  and  made  a speech.  She  listened  to  me, 
looking  at  me,  breaking  off  little  bits  of  stone  and 
letting  them  drop  down  into  the  valley.  At  last  she 
got  up  and  nodded  at  me  two  or  three  times  silently, 
with  a smile,  as  if  she  were  applauding  me  for  a solo 
on  the  violin.  ‘ You  ’re  in  love/  she  said,  ‘it's  a 
perfect  case ! ’ And  for  some  time  she  said  nothing 
more.  But  before  we  left  the  place  she  told  me  that 
she  owed  me  an  answer  to  my  speech.  She  thanked 
me  heartily,  but  she  was  afraid  that  if  she  took  me 
at  my  word  she  would  be  taking  advantage  of  my 
inexperience.  I had  known  few  women,  I was  too 
easily  pleased,  I thought  her  better  than  she  really 
was.  She  had  great  faults  ; I must  know  her  longer 
and  find  them  out  ; I must  compare  her  with  other 
women,  — women  younger,  simpler,  more  innocent, 
more  ignorant ; and  then  if  I still  did  her  the  honor 
to  think  well  of  her,  she  would  listen  to  me  again. 
I told  her  that  I was  not  afraid  of  preferring  any 
woman  in  the  world  to  her,  and  then  she  repeated, 
‘ Happy  man,  happy  man  ! you  ’re  in  love,  you  ’re  in 
love!”’ 

I called  upon  Madame  Blumenthal  a couple  of 
days  later,  in  some  agitation  of  thought.  It  has  been 
proved  that  there  are,  here  and  there,  in  the  world, 
such  people  as  sincere  attitudinizers ; certain  charac- 
ters cultivate  fictitious  emotions  in  perfect  good  faith. 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


237 


Even  if  this  clever  lady  enjoyed  poor  Pickering’s  be- 
dazzlement,  it  was  conceivable  that,  taking  vanity  and 
charity  together,  she  should  care  more  for  his  welfare 
than  for  her  own  entertainment ; and  her  offer  to 
abide  by  the  result  of  hazardous  comparison  with 
other  women  was  a finer  stroke  than  her  fame  — and 
indeed  than  probability  — had  seemed  to  foreshadow. 
She  received  me  in  a shabby  little  sitting-room,  lit- 
tered with  uncut  books  and  newspapers,  many  of 
which  I saw  at  a glance  were  French.  One  side  of  it 
was  occupied  by  an  open  piano,  surmounted  by  a jar 
full  of  white  roses.  They  perfumed  the  air;  they 
seemed  to  me  to  exhale  the  pure  aroma  of  Pickering’s 
devotion.  Buried  in  an  arm-chair,  the  object  of  this 
devotion  was  reading  the  Eevue  des  Deux  Mondes. 
The  purpose  of  my  visit  was  not  to  admire  Madame 
Blumenthal  on  my  own  account,  but  to  ascertain  how 
far  I might  safely  leave  her  to  work  her  will  upon  my 
^ friend.  She  had  impugned  my  sincerity  the  evening 
of  the  opera,  and  I was  careful  on  this  occasion  to 
abstain  from  compliments  and  not  to  place  her  on  her 
guard  against  my  penetration.  It  is  needless  to  nar- 
rate our  interview  in  detail;  indeed,  to  tell  the  per- 
fect truth,  I was  punished  for  my  ambition  to  read 
her  too  clearly  by  a temporary  eclipse  of  my  own 
perspicacity.  She  sat  there  so  questioning,  so  percep- 
tive, so  genial,  so  generous,  and  so  pretty  withal,  that 


238 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


I was  quite  ready  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  to  shake 
hands  with  Pickering  on  her  being  a wonderful  wo- 
man. I have  never  liked  to  linger,  in  memory,  on 
that  half-hour.  The  result  of  it  was  to  prove  that 
there  were  many  more  things  in  the  composition  of  a 
woman  who,  as  Medermeyer  said,  had  lodged  her 
imagination  in  the  place  of  her  heart,  than  were 
dreamt  of  in  my  philosophy.  Yet,  as  I sat  there 
stroking  my  hat  and  balancing  the  account  between 
nature  and  art  in  my  affable  hostess,  I felt  like  a very 
competent  philosopher.  She  had  said  she  wished  me 
to  tell  her  everything  about  our  friend,  and  she  ques- 
tioned me,  categorically,  as  to  his  family,  his  fortune, 
his  antecedents,  and  his  character.  All  this  was  natu- 
ral in  a woman  who  had  received  a passionate  declara- 
tion of  love,  and  it  was  expressed  with  an  air  of 
charmed  solicitude,  a radiant  confidence  that  there 
was  really  no  mistake  about  his  being  a supremely 
fine  fellow,  and  that  if  I chose  to  be  explicit,  I might 
deepen  her  conviction  to  disinterested  ecstasy,  which 
might  have  almost  inspired  me  to  invent  a good 
opinion,  if  I had  not  had  one  at  hand.  I told  her 
that  she  really  knew  Pickering  better  than  I did,  and 
that  until  we  met  at  Homburg,  I had  not  seen  him 
since  he  was  a boy. 

“ But  he  talks  to  you  freely,”  she  answered ; “ I know 
you  ’re  his  confidant.  He  has  told  me  certainly  a 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


239 


great  many  things,  but  I always  feel  as  if  he  were 
keeping  something  back ; as  if  he  were  holding  some- 
thing behind  him,  and  showing  me  only  one  hand  at 
once.  He  seems  often  to  be  hovering  on  the  edge  of 
a secret.  I have  had  several  friendships  in  my  life, 
— thank  Heaven ! but  I have  had  none  more  dear  to 
me  than  this  one.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  it  I have  the 
painful  sense  of  my  friend  being  half  afraid  of  me  ; of 
his  thinking  me  terrible,  strange,  perhaps  a trifle  out 
of  my  wits.  Poor  me  ! If  he  only  knew  what  a plain 
good  soul  I am,  and  how  I only  want  to  know  him 
and  befriend  him  ! ” 

These  words  were  full  of  a plaintive  magnanimity 
which  made  mistrust  seem  cruel.  How  much  better 
I might  play  providence  over  Pickering’s  experiments 
with  life,  if  I could  engage  the  fine  instincts  of  this 
charming  woman  on  the  providential  side  ! Picker- 
ing’s secret  was,  of  course,  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Yernor;  it  was  natural  enough  that  he  should  have 
been  unable  to  bring  himself  to  talk  of  it  to  Madame 
Blumenthal.  The  simple  sweetness  of  this  young  girl’s 
face  had  not  faded  from  my  memory ; I could  n’t  rid 
myself  of  the  fancy  that  in  going  further  Pickering 
might  fare  much  worse.  Madame  Blumenthal’s  pro- 
fessions seemed  a virtual  promise  to  agree  with  me, 
and  after  a momentary  hesitation  I said  that  my  friend 
had,  in  fact,  a substantial  secret,  and  that  it  appeared 


240 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


to  me  enlightened  friendship  to  put  her  into  possession 
of  it.  In  as  few  words  as  possible  I told  her  that 
Pickering  stood  pledged  by  filial  piety  to  marry  a 
young  lady  at  Smyrna.  She  listened  intently  to  my 
story ; when  I had  finished  it  there  was  a faint  flush 
of  excitement  in  each  of  her  cheeks.  She  broke  out 
into  a dozen  exclamations  of  admiration  and  compas- 
sion. “ What  a wonderful  tale  — what  a romantic  sit- 
uation ! No  wonder  poor  Mr.  Pickering  seemed  rest- 
less and  unsatisfied ; no  wonder  lie  wished  to  put  off 
the  day  of  submission.  And  the  poor  little  girl  at 
Smyrna,  waiting  there  for  the  young  Western  prince  like 
the  heroine  of  an  Eastern  tale ! She  would  give  the 
world  to  see  her  photograph;  did  I think  Mr.  Pick- 
ering would  show  it  to  her  ? But  never  fear ; she 
would  ask  nothing  indiscreet ! Yes,  it  was  a marvel- 
lous story,  and  if  she  had  invented  it  herself,  people 
would  have  said  it  was  absurdly  improbable.”  She 
left  her  seat  and  took  several  turns  about  the  room, 
smiling  to  herself  and  uttering  little  German  cries  of 
wonderment.  Suddenly  she  stopped  before  the  piano 
and  broke  into  a little  laugh ; the  next  moment  she 
buried  her  face  in  the  great  bouquet  of  roses.  It  was 
time  I should  go,  but  I was  indisposed  to  leave  her 
without  obtaining  some  definite  assurance  that,  as  far 
as  pity  was  concerned,  she  pitied  the  young  girl  at 
Smyrna  more  than  the  young  man  at  Homburg. 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


241 


“ Of  course  you  appreciate/’  I said,  rising,  “ my  hopes 
in  telling  you  all  this  ” 

She  had  taken  one  of  the  roses  from  the  vase  and 
was  arranging  it  in  the  front  of  her  dress.  Suddenly, 
looking  up,  “ Leave  it  to  me,  leave  it  to  me  ! ” she 
cried.  a I ’m  interested  ! ” And  with  her  little  blue- 
gemmed  hand  she  tapped  her  forehead.  “I’m  inter- 
ested, — don’t  interfere  ! ” 

And  with  this  I had  to  content  myself.  But  more 
than  once,  for  the  day  following,  I repented  of  my 
zeal,  and  wondered  whether  a providence  with  a white 
rose  in  her  bosom  might  not  turn  out  a trifle  too 
human.  In  the  evening,  at  the  Kursaal,  I looked 
for  Pickering,  but  he  was  not  visible,  and  I reflected 
that  my  revelation  had  not  as  yet,  at  any  rate, 
seemed  to  Madame  Blumenthal  a reason  for  prescrib- 
ing a cooling-term  to  his  passion.  Very  late,  as  I 
was  turning  away,  I saw  him  arrive,  — with  no  small 
satisfaction,  for  I had  determined  to  let  him  know 
immediately  in  what  way  I. had  attempted  to  serve 
him.  But  he  straightway  passed  his  arm  through 
my  own  and  led  me  off  toward  the  gardens.  I saw 
that  he  was  too  excited  to  allow  me  prior  speech. 

“ I ’ve  burnt  my  ships  ! ” he  cried,  when  we  were 
out  of  earshot  of  the  crowd.  “ I ’ve  told  her  every- 
thing. I ’ve  insisted  that  it ’s  simple  torture  for  me 
to  wait,  with  this  idle  view  of  loving  her  less.  It ’s 
11 


p 


242 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


well  enough  for  her  to  ask  it,  but  I feel  strong 
enough  now  to  override  her  reluctance.  I ’ve  cast 
off  the  millstone  from  round  my  neck.  I care  for 
nothing,  I know  nothing  but  that  I love  her  with 
every  pulse  of  my  being,  — and  that  everything 
else  has  been  a hideous  dream,  from  which  she 
may  wake  me  into  blissful  morning  with  a single 
word ! ” 

I held  him  off  at  arm’s-length  and  looked  at  him 
gravely.  “ You  have  told  her,  you  mean,  of  your  en- 
gagement to  Miss  Vernor  ? ” 

“ The  whole  story  ! I ’ve  given  it  up,  — I ’ve  thrown 
it  to  the  winds.  I ’ve  broken  utterly  with  the  past. 
It  may  rise  in  its  grave  and  give  me  its  curse,  but 
it  can’t  frighten  me  now.  I ’ve  a right  to  be  happy. 
I ’ve  a right  to  be  free,  I ’ve  a right  not  to  bury 
myself  alive.  It  was  n’t  I who  promised  ! I was  n’t 
born  then.  I myself,  my  soul,  my  mind,  my  option, 
— all  this  is  but  a month  old  ! Ah,”  he  went  on, 
“ if  you  knew  the  difference  it  makes,  — this  having 
chosen  and  broken  and  spoken  ! I ’m  twice  the  man 
I was  yesterday ! Yesterday  I was  afraid  of  her ; 
there  was  a kind  of  mocking  mystery  of  knowledge 
and  cleverness  about  her,  which  oppressed  me  in  the 
midst  of  my  love.  But  now  I ’m  afraid  of  nothing 
but  of  being  too  happy.” 

1 stood  silent,  to  let  him  spend  his  eloquence. 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


243 


But  lie  paused  a moment,  and  took  off  his  hat  and 
fanned  himself.  “ Let  me  perfectly  understand,”  I 
said  at  last.  “ You ’ve  asked  Madame  Blumenthal 
to  be  your  wife  ? ” 

“ The  wife  of  my  intelligent  choice  .” 

“ And  does  she  consent  ? ” 

“ She  asks  three  days  to  decide.” 

“ Call  it  four ! She  has  known  your  secret  since 
this  morning.  I bn  bound  to  let  you  know  I told 
her.” 

“ So  much  the  better ! ” cried  Pickering,  without 
apparent  resentment  or  surprise.  “ It ’s  not  a bril- 
liant offer  for  such  a woman,  and  in  spite  of  what  I 
have  at  stake  I feel  that  it  would  be  brutal  to  press 
her.” 

“ What  does  she  say,”  I asked  in  a moment,  “ to 
your  breaking  your  promise  ? ” 

Pickering  was  too  much  in  love  for  false  shame. 
“ She  tells  me,”  he  answered  bravely,  “ that  she  loves 
me  too  much  to  find  courage  to  condemn  me.  She 
agrees  with  me  that  I have  a right  to  be  happy.  I 
ask  no  exemption  from  the  common  law.  What  I 
claim  is  simply  freedom  to  try  to  be  ! ” 

Of  course  I was  puzzled;  it  was  not  in  that  fash- 
ion that  I had  expected  Madame  Blumenthal  to 
make  use  of  my  information.  But  the  matter  now 
was  quite  out  of  my  hands,  and  all  I.  could  do  was 


244 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


to  bid  my  companion  not  work  himself  into  a fever 
over  either  fortune. 

The  next  day  I had  a visit  from  Niedermeyer,  on 
whom,  after  our  talk  at  the  opera,  I had  left  a card. 
We  gossiped  awhile,  and  at  last  he  said  suddenly: 
“ By  the  way,  I have  a sequel  to  the  history  of  Clo- 
rinda.  The  major  is  in  Homburg  ! ” 

“ Indeed  ! ” said  I.  “ Since  when  ? ” 

“ These  three  days.” 

“ And  what  is  he  doing  ? ” 

“ He  seems,”  said  Medermeyer  with  a laugh,  “ to  be 
chiefly  occupied  in  sending  flowers  to  Madame  Blu- 
mentlial.  That  is,  I went  with  him  the  morning  of 
his  arrival  to  choose  a nosegay,  and  nothing  would 
suit  him  but  a small  haystack  of  white  roses.  I 
hope  it  was  received.” 

“ I can  assure  you  it  was,”  I cried.  “ I saw  the 
lady  fairly  nestling  her  head  in  it.  But  I advise 
the  major  not  to  build  upon  that.  He  has  a rival.” 

“Do  you  mean  the  soft  young  man  of  the  other 
night  ? ” 

“ Pickering  is  soft,  if  you  will,  but  his  .softness 
seems  to  have  served  him.  He  has  offered  her  every- 
thing, and  she  has  not  yet  refused  it.”  I had  handed 
my  visitor  a cigar  and  he  was  puffing  it  in  silence. 
At  last  he  abruptly  asked  if  I had  been  introduced  to 
Madame  Blumenthal ; and,  on  my  affirmative,  inquired 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


245 


what  I thought  of  her.  “ I ’ll  not  tell  you,”  I said, 
“or  you’ll  call  me  soft.” 

He  knocked  away  his  ashes,  eying  me  askance. 
“I’ve  noticed  your  friend  about,”  he  said,  “and  even 
if  you  had  not  told  me,  I should  have  known  he  was 
in  love.  After  he  has  left  his  adored,  his  face  wears 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  the  expression  with  which  he 
has  risen  from  her  feet,  and  more  than  once  I ’ve  felt 
like  touching  his  elbow,  as  you  would  that  of  a man 
who  has  inadvertently  come  into  a drawing-room  in  his 
overshoes.  You  say  he  has  offered  our  friend  every- 
thing ; but,  my  dear  fellow,  he  has  n’t  everything  to 
offer  her.  He ’s  as  amiable,  evidently,  as  the  morning, 
but  madame  has  no  taste  for  daylight.” 

“ I assure  you,”  said  I,  “ Pickering  is  a very  inter- 
esting fellow.” 

“ Ah,  there  it  is  ! Has  n’t  he  some  story  or  other  ? 
is  n’t  he  an  orphan,  or  natural  child,  or  consumptive, 
or  contingent  heir  to  great  estates  ? She  ’ll  read  his 
little  story  to  the  end,  and  close  the  book  very  ten- 
derly and  smooth  down  the  cover,  and  then,  when  he 
least  expects  it,  she  ’ll  toss  it  into  the  dusty  limbo  of 
all  her  old  romances.  She  ’ll  let  him  dangle,  but  she  ’ll 
let  him  drop  ! ” 

“ Upon  my  word,”  I cried  with  heat,  “ if  she  does, 
she  ’ll  be  a very  unprincipled  little  creature  ! ” 

Niedermeyer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “ I never  said 
she  was  a saint ! ” 


246 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


Shrewd  as  I felt  Niedermeyer  to  be,  I was  not  pre- 
pared to  take  his  simple  word  for  this  consummation, 
and  in  the  evening  I received  a communication  which 
fortified  my  doubts.  It  was  a note  from  Pickering,  and 
it  ran  as  follows  : — 

“ My  dear  Friend,  — I have  every  hope  of  being 
happy,  but  I am  to  go  to  Wiesbaden  to  learn  my  fate. 
Madame  Blumenthal  goes  thither  this  afternoon  to 
spend  a few  days,  and  she  allows  me  to  accompany 
her.  Give  me  your  good  wishes;  you  shall  hear  of 
the  event.  “E.  P” 

One  of  the  diversions  of  Homburg  for  new-comers 
is  to  dine  in  rotation  at  the  different  tables  d’hotes.  It 
so  happened  that,  a couple  of  days  later,  Niedermeyer 
took  pot-luck  at  my  hotel  and  secured  a seat  beside 
my  own.  As  we  took  our  places  I found  a letter  on 
my  plate,  and,  as  it  was  postmarked  Wiesbaden,  I lost 
no  time  in  opening  it.  It  contained  but  three  lines : — 

“ I ’m  happy  — I’m  accepted  — an  hour  ago.  I can 
hardly  believe  it ’s  your  poor  old  “ E.  P .” 

I placed  the  note  before  Niedermeyer:  not  exactly 
in  triumph,  but  with  the  alacrity  of  all  privileged  con- 
futation. He  looked  at  it  much  longer  than  was  need- 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


247 


ful  to  read  it,  stroking  down  his  beard  gravely,  and  I 
felt  it  was  not  so  easy  to  confute  a pupil  of  the  school 
of  Metternich.  At  last,  folding  the  note  and  handing 
it  back,  “ Has  your  friend  mentioned,”  he  asked,  “ Ma- 
dame Blumenthalls  errand  at  Wiesbaden  ? ” 

“ You  look  very  wise.  I give  it  up  ! ” said  I. 

“ She ’s  gone  there  to  make  the  major  follow  her. 
He  went  by  the  next  train.” 

“And  has  the  major,  on  his  side,  dropped  you 
a line  ? ” 

“ He ’s  not  a letter- writer.” 

“Well,”  said  I,  pocketing  my  letter,  “with  this 
document  in  my  hand  I ’m  bound  to  reserve  my 
judgment.  We  ’ll  have  a bottle  of  Johannisberg, 
and  drink  to  the  triumph  of  virtue.” 

For  a whole  week  more  I heard  nothing  from 
Pickering,  — somewhat  to  my  surprise,  and,  as  the 
days  went  by,  not  a little  to  my  discomposure.  I had 
expected  that  his  bliss  would  continue  to  overflow  in 
an  occasional  brief  bulletin,  and  his  silence  was  pos- 
sibly an  indication  that  it  had  been  clouded.  At 
last  I wrote  to  his  hotel  at  Wiesbaden,  but  received 
no  answer ; whereupon,  as  my  next  resource,  I re- 
paired to  his^  former  lodging  at  Homburg,  where  I 
thought  it  possible  he  had  left  property  which  he 
would  sooner  or  later  send  for.  There  I learned  that 
he  had  indeed  just  telegraphed  from  Cologne  for 


248 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


liis  baggage.  .To  Cologne  I immediately  despatched 
a line  of  inquiry  as  to  his  prosperity  and  the  cause 
of  his  silence.  The  next  day  I received  three  words 
in  answer,  — a simple,  uncommented  request  that  I 
would  come  to  him.  I lost  no  time,  and  reached 
him  in  the  course  of  a few  hours.  It  was  dark 
when  I arrived,  and  the  city  was  sheeted  in  a cold, 
autumnal  rain.  Pickering  had  stumbled,  with  an  in- 
difference which  was  itself  a symptom  of  distress, 
on  a certain  musty  old  Mainzerhof,  and  I found  him 
sitting  over  a smouldering  fire  in  a vast,  dingy  cham- 
ber, which  looked  as  if  it  had  grown  gray  with  watch- 
ing the  ennui  of  ten  generations  of  travellers.  Looking 
at  him,  as  he  rose  on  my  entrance,  I saw  that  he 
was  in  extreme  tribulation.  He  was  pale  and  hag- 
gard ; his  face  was  five  years  older.  How,  at  least, 
in  all  conscience,  he  had  tasted  of  the  cup  of  life. 
I was  anxious  to  know  what  had  turned  it  so  sud- 
denly to  bitterness ; but  I spared  him  all  importu- 
nate curiosity,  and  let  him  take  his  time.  I as- 
sented, tacitly,  to  the  symptoms  of  his  trouble,  and 
we  made  for  a while  a feeble  effort  to  discuss  the 
picturesqueness  of  Cologne.  At  last  he  rose  and 
stood  a long  time  looking  into  the  fire,  while  I 
slowly  paced  the  length  of  the  dusky  room. 

“Well!”  he  said  as  I came  back;  “ I wanted 
knowledge,  and  I certainly  know  something  I did  n’t 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


249 


a month  ago.”  And  herewith,  calmly  and  succinctly 
enough,  as  if  dismay  had  worn  itself  out,  he  related 
the  history  of  the  foregoing  days.  He  touched  lightly 
on  details ; he  evidently  never  was  to  gush  as  freely 
again  as  he  had  done  during  the  prosperity  of  his 
suit.  He  had  been  accepted  one  evening,  as  expli- 
citly as  his  imagination  could  desire,  and  had  gone 
forth  in  his  rapture  and  roamed  about  till  nearly 
morning  in  the  gardens  of  the  Conversation  House, 
taking  the  stars  and  the  perfumes  of  the  summer 
night  into  his  confidence.  “ It ’s  worth  it  all,  almost,” 
he  said,  “ to  have  been  wound  up  for  an  hour  to  that 
celestial  pitch.  No  man,  I ’m  sure,  can  ever  know  it 
but  once.”  The  next  morning  he  had  repaired  to 
Madame  Blumentliars  lodging  and  had  been  met,  to 
his  amazement,  by  a naked  refusal  to  see  him.  He 
had  strode  about  for  a couple  of  hours  — in  another 
mood  — and  then  had  returned  to  the  charge.  The 
servant  handed  him  a three-cornered  note ; it  contained 
these  words : “ Leave  me  alone  to-day ; I ’ll  give  you 
ten  minutes  to-morrow  evening.”  Of  the  next  thirty- 
six  hours  he  could  give  no  coherent  account,  but  at 
the  appointed  time  Madame  Blumenthal  had  received 
him.  Almost  before  she  spoke  there  had  come  to 
him  a sense  of  the  depth  of  his  folly  in  sup- 
posing he  knew  her.  “ One  has  heard  all  one’s 
days,”  he  said,  “ of  people  removing  the  mask ; it ’s 


250 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


one  of  the  stock  phrases  of  romance.  Well,  there 
she  stood  with  her  mask  in  her  hand.  Her  face,”  he 
went  on  gravely,  after  a pause, — “her  face  was  hor- 
rible ! ” “ I give  you  ten  minutes,”  she  had  said,  point- 
ing to  the  clock.  “Make  your  scene,  tear  your  hair, 
brandish  your  dagger ! ” And  she  had  sat  down  and 
folded  her  arms.  “ It ’s  not  a joke,”  she  cried,  “ it ’s 
dead  earnest ; let  ’s  get  through  with  it.  You  he  dis- 
missed ! Have  you  nothing  to  say  ? ” He  had  stam- 
mered some  frantic  demand  for  an  explanation;  and 
she  had  risen  and  come  near  him,  looking  at  him 
from  head  to  feet,  very  pale,  and  evidently  more  ex- 
cited than  she  wished  to  have  him  see.  “ I ’ve  done 
with  you ! ” she  said  with  a smile ; “ you  ought  to 
have  done  with  me ! It  has  all  been  delightful,  but 
there  are  excellent  reasons  why  it -should  come  to  an 
end.”  “You’ve  been  playing  a part,  then,”  he  had 
gasped  out;  “you  never  cared  for  me?”  “Yes;  till 
I knew  you ; till  I saw  how  far  you ’d  go.  But  now 
the  story ’s  finished ; we  Ve  reached  the  denouement. 
We  ’ll  close  the  book  and  be  good  friends.”  “ To  see 
how  far  I would  go  ? ” he  had  repeated.  “ You  led 
me  on,  meaning  all  the  while  to  do  this t”  “I  led 
you  on,  if  you  will.  I received  your  visits  in  sea- 
son and  out ! Sometimes  they  were  very  entertain- 
ing; sometimes  they  bored  me  fearfully.  But  you 
were  such  a very  curious  case  of — what  shall  I call 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


251 


it?  — of  enthusiasm,  that  I determined  to  take  good 
and  bad  together.  I wanted  to  make  you  commit 
yourself  unmistakably.  I should  have  preferred  not 
to  bring  you  to  this  place : but  that  too  was  neces- 
sary. Of  course  I can’t  marry  you ; I can  do  better. 
Thank  your  fate  for  it.  You  ’ve  thought  wonders 
of  me  for  a month,  but  your  good-humor  would  n’t 
last.  I ’m  too  old  and  too  wise ; you  ’re  too  young 
and  too  foolish.  It  seems  to  me  that  I Ve  been  very 
good  to  you ; I ’ve  entertained  you  to  the  top  of 
your  bent,  and,  except  perhaps  that  I ’m  a little 
brusque  just  now,  you ’ve  nothing  to  complain  of.  I 
would  have  let  you  down  more  gently  if  I could 
have  taken  another  month  to  it;  but  circumstances 
have  forced  my  hand.  Abuse  me,  revile  me,  if  you 
like.  I ’ll  make  every  allowance  ! ” Pickering  lis- 
tened to  all  this  intently  enough  to  perceive  that,  as 
if  by  some  sudden  natural  cataclysm,  the  ground 
had  broken  away  at  his  feet,  and  that  he  must  recoil. 
He  turned  away  in  dumb  amazement.  “ I don’t  know 
how  I seemed  to  be  taking  it,”  he  said,  “but  she 
seemed  really  to  desire  — I don’t  know  why  — some- 
thing in  the  way  of  reproach  and  vituperation.  But 
I could  n’t,  in  that  way,  have  uttered  a syllable.  I 
was  sickened;  I wanted  to  get  away  into  the  air, — 
to  shake  her  off  and  come  to  my  senses.  ‘ Have 
you  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  to  say  ? ’ she  cried,  as 


252 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


I stood  with  my  hand  on  the  door.  ‘ Have  n’t  I 
treated  you  to  talk  enough  ? ’ I believe  I answered. 
‘You’ll  write  to  me  then,  when  you  get  home?’  ‘T 
think  not/  said  I.  ‘ Six  months  hence,  I fancy,  you  ’ll 
come  and  see  me  ! ’ ‘ Never ! ’ said  I.  ‘ That ’s  a 
confession  of  stupidity/  she  answered.  ‘ It  means 
that,  even  on  reflection,  you  ’ll  never  understand  the 
philosophy  of  my  conduct.’  The  word  ‘philosophy’ 
seemed  so  strange  that  I verily  believe  I smiled. 
‘ I ’ve  given  you/  she  went  on,  ‘ all  that  you  gave 
me.  Your  passion  was  an  affair  of  the  head/  ‘ I 
only  wish  you  had  told  me  sooner/  I exclaimed,  ‘that 
you  considered  it  so  ! ’ And  I went  my  way.  The 
next  day  I came  down  the  Bhine.  I sat  all  day  on 
the  boat,  not  knowing  where  I was  going,  where  to 
get  off.  I was  in  a kind  of  ague  of  terror;  it  seemed 
to  me  I had  seen  something  infernal.  At  last  I saw 
the  cathedral  towers  here  looming  over  the  city.  They 
seemed  to  say  something  to  me,  and  when  the  boat 
stopped,  I came  ashore.  I ’ve  been  here  a week : I 
have  n’t  slept  at  night,  — and  yet  it  has  been  a week 
of  rest ! ” 

It  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  in  a fair  way  to 
recover,  and  that  his  own  philosophy,  if  left  to  take 
its  time,  was  adequate  to  the  occasion.  After  his 
story  was  told  I recurred  to  his  grievance  but  once, — 
that  evening,  later,  as  we  were  about  to  separate  for 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


253 


the  night.  “ Suffer  me  to  say,”  I said,  “that  there 
was  some  truth  in  her  account  of  your  relations.  You 
were  using  her,  intellectually,  and  all  the  while,  with- 
out your  knowing  it,  she  was  using  you.  It  was 
diamond  cut  diamond.  Her  needs  were  the  more 
superficial  and  she  came  to  an  end  first.”  He  frowned 
and  turned  uneasily  away,  but  he  offered  no  denial. 
I waited  a few  moments,  to  see  if  he  would  remem- 
ber, before  we  parted,  that  he  had  a claim  to  make 
upon  me.  But  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it. 

The  next  day  we  strolled  about  the  picturesque  old 
city,  and  of  course,  before  long,  went  into  the  cathe- 
dral. Pickering  said  little;  he  seemed  intent  upon 
his  own  thoughts.  He  sat  down  beside  a pillar  near 
a chapel,  in  front  of  a gorgeous  window,  and,  leaving 
him  to  his  meditations,  I wandered  through  the  church. 
When  I came  back  I saw  he  had  something  to  say. 
But  before  he  had  spoken,  I laid  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  looked  at  him  with  a significant  smile. 
He  slowly  bent  his  head  and  dropped  his  eyes,  with 
a mixture  of  assent  and  humility.  I drew  forth  his 
letter  from  where  it  had  lain  untouched  for  a month, 
placed  it  silently  on  his  knee,  and  left  him  to  deal 
with  it  alone. 

Half  an  hour  later  I returned  to  the  same  place, 
but  he  had  gone,  and  one  of  the  sacristans,  hovering 
about  and  seeing  me  looking  for  Pickering,  said  he 


254 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


thought  he  had  left  the  church.  I found  him  in^his 
gloomy  chamber  at  the  inn,  pacing  slowly  up  and 
down.  I should  doubtless  have  been  at  a loss  to  say 
just  what  effect  I expected  his  letter  to  produce ; but 
his  actual  aspect  surprised  me.  He  was  flushed,  ex- 
cited, a trifle  irritated. 

“ Evidently/’  I said,  “ you ’ve  read  your  letter.” 

“I  owe  you  a report  of  it,”  he  answered.  “When 
I gave  it  to  you  a month  ago,  I did  my  friends  in- 
justice.” 

“You  called  it  a f summons/  I remember.” 

“ I was  a great  fool ! It ’s  a release  !” 

“ Erom  your  engagement  ? ” 

“ From  everything ! The  letter,  of  course,  is  from 
Mr.  Yernor.  He  desires  to  let  me  know  at  the  earliest 
moment,  that  his  daughter,  informed  for  the  first  time 
a week  before  of  what  was  expected  of  her,  positively 
refuses  to  be  bound  by  the  contract  or  to  assent  to 
my  being  bound.  She  had  been  given  a week  to 
reflect  and  had  spent  it  in  inconsolable  tears.  She 
had  resisted  every  form  of  persuasion;  from  compul- 
sion, writes  Mr.  Yernor,  he  naturally  shrinks.  The 
young  lady  considers  the  arrangement  ‘ horrible.’  Af- 
ter accepting  her  duties  cut  and  dried  all  her  life,  she 
presumes  at  last  to  have  a taste  of  her  own.  I confess 
I ’m  surprised ; I had  been  given  to  believe  that  she 
was  idiotically  passive  and  would  remain  so  to  the 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


255 


efid  of  the  chapter.  Not  a bit!  She  has  insisted 
on  my  being  formally  dismissed,  and  her  father  inti- 
mates that  in  case  of  non-compliance  she  threatens 
him  with  an  attack  of  brain  fever.  Mr.  Yernor  con- 
doles with  me  handsomely,  and  lets  me  know  that 
the  young  lady’s  attitude  has  been  a great  shock  to 
his  own  nerves.  He  adds  that  he  will  not  aggravate 
such  regret  as  I may  do  him  the  honor  to  entertain, 
by  any  allusion  to  his  daughter’s  charms  and  to  the 
magnitude  of  my  loss,  and  he  concludes  with  the  hope 
that,  for  the  comfort  of  all  concerned,  I may  already 
have  amused  my  fancy  with  other  ‘ views.’  He  re- 
minds me  in  a postscript  that,  in  spite  of  this  painful 
occurrence,  the  son  of  his  most  valued  friend  will 
always  be  a welcome  visitor  at  his  house.  I am  free, 
he  observes;  I have  my  life  before  me;  he  recom- 
mends an  extensive  course  of  travel.  Should  my 
wanderings  lead  me  to  the  East,  he  hopes  that  no 
false  embarrassment  will  deter  me  from  presenting 
myself  at  Smyrna.  He  will  insure  me  at  least  a 
friendly  reception.  It’s  a very  polite  letter.” 

Polite  as  the  letter  was,  Pickering  seemed  to  find 
no  great  exhilaration  in  having  this  famous  burden 
so  handsomely  lifted  from  his  conscience.  He  fell 
4-brooding  over  his  liberation  in  a manner  which  you 
might  have  deemed  proper  to  a renewed  sense  of 
bondage.  “ Bad  news  ” he  had  called  his  letter  origi- 


256 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


nally ; and  yet,  now  that  its  contents  proved  to  be  in 
flat  contradiction  to  liis  foreboding,  there  was  no  im- 
pulsive voice  to  reverse  the  formula  and  declare  the 
news  was  good.  The  wings  of  impulse  in  the  poor 
fellow  had  of  late  been  terribly  clipped.  It  was  an 
obvious  reflection,  of  course,  that  if  he  had  not  been 
so  doggedly  sure  of  the  matter  a month  before,  and 
had  gone  through  the  form  of  breaking  Mr.  Vernor’s 
seal,  he  might  have  escaped  the  purgatory  of  Madame 
Blumenthal’s  blandishments.  But  I left  him  to  mor- 
alize in  private ; I had  no  desire,  as  the  phrase  is,  to 
rub  it  in.  My  thoughts,  moreover,  were  following 
another  train ; I was  saying  to  myself  that  if  to  those 
gentle  graces  of  which  her  young  visage  had  offered 
to  my  fancy  the  blooming  promise.  Miss  Vernor  added 
in  this  striking  measure  the  capacity  for  magnanimous 
action,  the  amendment  to  my  friend’s  career  had  been 
less  happy  than  the  rough  draught.  Presently,  turn- 
ing about,  I saw  him  looking  at  the  young  lady’s 
photograph.  “ Of  course,  now/’  he  said,  “ I have  no 
right  to  keep  it ! ” And  before  I could  ask  for  another 
glimpse  of  it,  he  had  thrust  it  into  the  fire. 

“ I am  sorry  to  be  saying  it  just  now,”  I observed 
after  a while,  “ but  I should  n’t  wonder  if  Miss  Yernor 
were  a lovely  creature.” 

“Go  and  find  out,”  he  answered  gloomily.  “The 
coast  is  clear.  My  part,”  he  presently  added,  “is  to 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


257 


forget  her.  It  ought  n't  to  be  hard.  But  don't  you 
think,"  he  went  on  suddenly,  “that  for  a poor  fellow 
who  asked  nothing  of  fortune  but  leave  to  sit  down  in 
a quiet  corner,  it  has  been  rather  a cruel  pushing 
about  ? " 

Cruel  indeed,  I declared,  and  he  certainly  had  the 
right  to  demand  a clean  page  on  the  book  of  fate,  and 
a fresh  start.  Mr.  Yernor's  advice  was  sound ; he 
should  seek  diversion  in  the  grand  tour  of  Europe.  If 
he  would  allow  it  to  the  zeal  of  my  sympathy,  I would 
go  with  him  on  his  way.  Pickering  assented  without 
enthusiasm ; he  had  the  discomfited  look  of  a man 
who,  having  gone  to  some  cost  to  make  a good  appear- 
ance in  a drawing-room,  should  find  the  door  suddenly 
slammed  in  his  face.  We  started  on  our  journey, 
however,  and  little  by  little  his  enthusiasm  returned. 
He  was  too  capable  of  enjoying  fine  things  to  remain 
permanently  irresponsive,  and  after  a fortnight  spent 
among  pictures  and  monuments  and  antiquities,  I felt 
that  I was  seeing  him  for  the  first  time  in  his  best  and 
healthiest  mood.  He  had  had  a fever  and  then  he  had 
had  a chill;  the  pendulum  had  swung  right  and  left 
in  a manner  rather  trying  to  the  machine ; but  now,  at 
last,  it  was  working  back  to  an  even,  natural  beat. 
He  recovered  in  a measure  the  generous  eloquence 
with  which  he  had  fanned  his  flame  at  Homburg,  and 
talked  about  things  with  something  of  the  same  pas- 


Q 


258 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


sionate  freshness.  One  day  when  I was  laid  up  at  the 
inn  at  Bruges  with  a lame  foot,  he  came  home  and 
treated  me  to  a rhapsody  about  a certain  meek-faced 
virgin  of  Hans  Memling,  which  seemed  to  me  sounder 
sense  than  his  compliments  to  Madame  Blumenthal. 
He  had  his  dull  days  and  his  sombre  moods,  — hours 
of  irresistible  retrospect ; but  I let  them  come  and  go 
without  remonstrance,  because  I fancied  they  always 
left  him  a trifle  more  alert  and  resolute.  One  evening, 
however,  he  sat  hanging  his  head  in  so  doleful  a fashion 
that  I took  the  bull  by  the  horns  and  told  him  he  had 
by  this  time  surely  paid  his  debt  to  penitence,  and 
owed  it  to  himself  to  banish  that  woman  forever  from 
his  thoughts. 

He  looked  up,  staring ; and  then  with  a deep  blush : 
“ That  woman  ? ” he  said.  “ I was  not  thinking  of 
Madame  Blumenthal ! ” 

After  this  I gave  another  construction  to  his  melan- 
choly. Taking  him  with  his  hopes  and  fears,  at  the 
end  of  six  weeks  of  active  observation  and  keen 
sensation,  Pickering  was  as  fine  a fellow  as  need  be. 
We  made  our  way  down  to  Italy  and  spent  a fort- 
night at  Venice.  There  something  happened  which  I 
had  been  confidently  expecting ; I had  said  to  my- 
self that  it  was  merely  a question  of  time.  We  had 
passed  the  day  at  Torcello,  and  came  floating  back  in 
the  glow  of  the  sunset,  with  measured  oar-strokes. 


EUGENE  PICKERING. 


259 


“ I ’m  well  on  the  way/'  Pickering  said  ; “ I think  I ’ll 

go!” 

We  had  not  spoken  for  an  hour,  and  I naturally 
asked  him,  Where  ? His  answer  was  delayed  by  our 
getting  in  to  the  Piazzetta.  I stepped  ashore  first  and 
then  turned  to  help  him.  As  he  took  my  hand  he 
met  my  eyes,  consciously,  and  it  came  : “To  Smyrna  !” 

A couple  of  days  later  he  started.  I had  risked  the 
conjecture  that  Miss  Yernor  was  a lovely  creature,  and 
six  months  afterwards  he  wrote  me  that  I was  right. 


The  Madonna  of  the  Future. 


' 


■ 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTUEE. 


had  been  talking  about  the  masters  who  had 


V Y achieved  but  a single  masterpiece,  — the  art- 
ists and  poets  who  but  once  in  their  lives  had  known 
the  divine  afflatus,  and  touched  the  high  level  of  the 
best.  Our  host  had  been  showing  us  a charming  little 
cabinet  picture  by  a painter  whose  name  we  had  never 
heard,  and  who,  after  this  one  spasmodic  bid  for  fame, 
had  apparently  relapsed  into  fatal  mediocrity.  There 
was  some  discussion  as  to  the  frequency  of  this  phe- 
nomenon ; during  which,  I observed,  H sat  silent, 

finishing  his  cigar  with  a meditative  air,  and  looking 
at  the  picture,  which  was  being  handed  round  the  table. 
“ I don’t  know  how  common  a case  it  is,”  he  said  at 
last,  “ but  I ’ve  seen  it.  I ’ve  known  a poor  fellow  who 
painted  his  one  masterpiece,  and  ” — he  added  with  a 
smile  — “ he  did  n’t  even  paint  that.  He  made  his  bid 

for  fame,  and  missed  it.”  We  all  knew  H for  a 

clever  man  who  had  seen  much  of  men  and  manners, 


264 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


and  had  a great  stock  of  reminiscences.  Some  one  im- 
mediately questioned  him  further,  and  while  I was  en- 
grossed with  the  Captures  of  my  neighbor  over  the  little 
picture,  he  was  induced  to  tell  his  tale.  If  I were  to 
doubt  whether  it  would  bear  repeating,  I should  only 
have  to  remember  how  that  charming  woman,  our 
hostess,  who  had  left  the  table,  ventured  back  in  rust- 
ling rose-color,  to  pronounce  our  lingering  a want  of 
gallantry,  and,  finding  us  a listening  circle,  had  sunk 
into  her  chair  in  spite  of  our  cigars,  and  heard  the  story 
out  so  graciously,  that  when  the  catastrophe  was 
reached  she  glanced  across  at  me,  and  showed  me  a 
tender  tear  in  each  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 

It  relates  to  my  youth,  and  to  Italy:  two  fine  things  ! 

(H began.)  I had  arrived  late  in  the  evening  at 

Florence,  and  while  I finished  my  bottle  of  wine  at 
supper,  had  fancied  that,  tired  traveller  though  I was, 
I might  pay  the  city  a finer  compliment  than  by  going 
vulgarly  to  bed.  A narrow  passage  wandered  darkly 
away  out  of  the  little  square  before  my  hotel,  and 
looked  as  if  it  bored  into  the  heart  of  Florence.  I 
followed  it,  and  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes  emerged 
upon  a great  piazza,  filled  only  with  the  mild  autumn 
moonlight.  Opposite  rose  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  like 
some  huge  civic  fortress,  with  the  great  bell-tower 
springing  from  its  embattled  verge  like  a mountain- 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


265 


pine  from  the  edge  of  a cliff.  At  its  base,  in  its  pro- 
jected shadow,  gleamed  certain  dim  sculptures  which  I 
wonderingly  approached.  One  of  the  images,  on  the 
left  of  the  palace  door,  was  a magnificent  colossus, 
shining  through  the  dusky  air  like  some  embodied 
Defiance.  In  a moment  I recognized  him  as  Michael 
Angelo’s  David.  I turned  with  a certain  relief  from 
his  sinister  strength  to  a slender  figure  in  bronze,  sta- 
tioned beneath  the  high,  light  loggia,  which  opposes 
the  free  and  elegant  span  of  its  arches  to  the  dead 
masonry  of  the  palace  ; a figure  supremely  shapely  and 
graceful ; gentle,  almost,  in  spite  of  his  holding  out 
with  his  light  nervous  arm  the  snaky  head  of  the 
slaughtered  Gorgon.  His  name  is  Perseus,  and  you 
may  read  his  story,  not  in  the  Greek  mythology,  but  in 
memoirs  of  Benvenuto  Cellini.  Glancing  from  one  of 
these  fine  fellows  to  the  other,  I probably  uttered  some 
irrepressible  commonplace  of  praise,  for,  as  if  provoked 
by  my  voice,  a man  rose  from  the  steps  of  the  loggia, 
where  he  had  been  sitting  in  the  shadow,  and  addressed 
me  in  good  English,  — a small,  slim  personage,  clad  in  a 
sort  of  black  velvet  tunic  (as  it  seemed),  and  with  a mass 
of  auburn  hair,  which  gleamed  in  the  moonlight,  escap- 
ing from  a little  mediaeval  berretta.  In  a tone  of  the 
most  insinuating  deference,  he  asked  me  for  my  “ im- 
pressions.” He  seemed  picturesque,  fantastic,  slightly 
unreal.  Hovering  there  in  this  consecrated  neighbor- 
12 


266 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


hood,  he  might  have  passed  for  the  genius  of  aesthetic 
hospitality,  — if  the  genius  of  aesthetic  hospitality  were 
not  commonly  some  shabby  little  custode,  flourishing  a 
calico  pocket-handkerchief,  and  openly  resentful  of  the 
divided  franc.  This  fantasy  was  made  none  the  less 
plausible  by  the  brilliant  tirade  with  which  he  greeted 
my  embarrassed  silence. 

“ I Ve  known  Florence  long,  sir,  but  I ’ve  never 
known  her  so  lovely  as  to-night.  It ’s  as  if  the  ghosts 
of  her  past  were  abroad  in  the  empty  streets.  The 
present  is  sleeping;  the  past  hovers  about  us  like  a 
dream  made  visible.  Fancy  the  old  Florentines  stroll- 
ing up  in  couples  to  pass  judgment  on  the  last  per- 
formance of  Michael,  of  Benvenuto  ! We  should  come 
in  for  a precious  lesson  if  we  might  overhear  what 
they  say.  The  plainest  burgher  of  them,  in  his  cap 
and  gown,  had  a taste  in  the  matter ! That  was  the 
prime  of  art,  sir.  The  sun  stood  high  in  heaven,  and 
his  broad  and  equal  blaze  made  the  darkest  places 
bright  and  the  dullest  eyes  clear.  We  live  in  the 
evening  of  time ! We  grope  in  the  gray  dusk,  carrying 
each  our  poor  little  taper  of  selfish  and  painful  wis- 
dom, holding  it  up  to  the  great  models  and  to  the  dim 
idea,  and  seeing  nothing  but  overwhelming  greatness 
and  dimness.  The  days  of  illumination  are  gone ! 
But  do  you  know  I fancy  — I fancy,”  — and  he  grew 
suddenly  almost  familiar  in  this  visionary  fervor,  — 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


267 


“ I fancy  the  light  of  that  time  rests  upon  us  here  for  , 
an  hour ! I have  never  seen  the  David  so  grand,  the 
Perseus  so  fair!  Even  the  inferior  productions  of 
John  of  Bologna  and  of  Baccio  Bandinelli  seem  to 
realize  the  artist's  dream.  I feel  as  if  the  moonlit  air 
were  charged  with  the  secrets  of  the  masters,  and  as 
if,  standing  here  in  religious  contemplation,  we  might 
— we  might  witness  a revelation  ! ” Perceiving  at  this 
moment,  I suppose,  my  halting  comprehension  reflected 
in  my  puzzled  face,  this  interesting  rhapsodist  paused 
and  blushed.  Then  with  a melancholy  smile,  “You 
think  me  a moonstruck  charlatan,  I suppose.  It ’s  not 
my  habit  to  hang  about  the  piazza  and  pounce  upon 
innocent  tourists.  But  to-night,  I confess,  I ’m  under 
the  charm.  And  then,  somehow,  I fancied  you,  too, 
were  an  artist ! ” 

“ I ’m  not  an  artist,  I ’m  sorry  to  say,  as  you  must 
understand  the  term.  But  pray  make  no  apologies. 
Lam  also  under  the  charm ; your  eloquent  reflections 
have  only  deepened  it.” 

“ If  you  ’re  not  an  artist,  you  ’re  worthy  to  be  one  ! ” 
he  rejoined,  with  a bow.  “ A young  man  who  arrives 
at  Florence  late  in  the  evening,  and,  instead  of  going 
prosaically  to  bed,  or  hanging  over  the  travellers’  book 
at  his  hotel,  walks  forth  without  loss  of  time  to  pay 
his -devoirs  to  the  beautiful,  is  a young  man  after  my 
own  heart ! ” 


268 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


The  mystery  was  suddenly  solved ; my  friend  was  # 
an  American  I n He  must  have  been,  to  take  the  pic- 
turesque so  prodigiously  to  heart.  “ None  the  less  so, 

I trust,”  I answered,  “ if  the  young  man  is  a sordid 
New-Yorker.” 

“ New-Yorkers,”  he  solemnly  proclaimed,  “have  been 
munificent  patrons  of  art ! ” 

For  a moment  I was  alarmed.  Was  this  midnight 
revery  mere  Yankee  enterprise,  and  was  he  simply  a 
desperate  brother  of  the  brush  who  had  posted  himself 
here  to  extort  an  “ order  ” from  a sauntering  tourist  ? 
But  I was  not  called  to  defend  myself.  A great  brazen 
note  broke  suddenly  from  the  far-off  summit  of  the 
bell-tower  above  us  and  sounded  the  first  stroke  of 
midnight.  My  companion  started,  apologized  for  de- 
taining me,  and  prepared  to  retire.  But  he  seemed  to 
offer  so  lively  a promise  of  further  entertainment,  that 
I was  indisposed  to  part  with  him,  and  suggested  that 
we  should  stroll  homeward  together.  He  cordially  as- 
sented, so  we  turned  out  of  the  Piazza,  passed  down 
before  the  statued  arcade  of  the  Uffizi,  and  came  out 
upon  the  Arno.  What  course  we  took  I hardly  re- 
member, but  we  roamed  slowly  about  for  an  hour, 
my  companion  delivering  by  snatches  a sort  of  moon- 
touched  aesthetic  lecture.  I listened  in  puzzled  fasci- 
nation, and  wondered  who  the  deuce  he  was.  He  con- 
fessed with  a melancholy  but  all-respectful  head-shake 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


2G9 


to  liis  American  origin.  “We  are  tlie  disinherited 
of  Art  1 ” he  cried.  “ We  are  condemned  to  be  super- 
ficial ! We  are  excluded  from  the  magic  circle.  The 
soil  of  American  perception  is  a poor  little  barren, 
artificial  deposit.  Yes!  we  are  wedded  to  imperfec- 
tion. An  American,  to  excel,  has  just  ten  times  as 
much  to  learn  as  a European.  We  lack  the  deeper 
sense.  We  have  neither  taste,  nor  tact,  nor  force. 
How  should  we  have  them?  Our  crude  and  garish 
climate,  our  silent  past,  our  deafening  present,  the 
constant  pressure  about  us  of  unlovely  circumstance, 
are  as  void  of  all  that  nourishes  and  prompts  and  in- 
spires the  artist,  as  my  sad  heart  is  void  of  bitterness 
in  saying  so ! We  poor  aspirants  must  live  in  per- 
petual exile.” 

“You  seem  fairly  at  home  in  exile”  I answered, 
“ and  Florence  seems  to  me  a very  pretty  Siberia.  But 
do  you  know  my  own  thought  ? Nothing  is  so  idle  as 
to  talk  about  our  want  of  a nutritive  soil,  of  oppor- 
tunity, of  inspiration,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  The  wor- 
thy part  is  to  do  something  fine  ! There ’s  no  law  in 
our  glorious  Constitution  against  that.  Invent,  create, 
achieve  ! No  matter  if  you  Ve  to  study  fifty  times  as 
much  as  one  of  these ! What  else  are  you  an  artist 
for  ? Be  you  our  Moses,”  I added,  laughing,  and  lay- 
ing my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  “ and  lead  us  out  of  the 
house  of  bondage  ! ” 


270 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


“ Golden  words,  — golden  words,  young  man  ! ” he 
cried,  with  a tender  smile.  “ ‘ Invent,  create,  achieve  ! * 
Yes,  that ’s  our  business  : I know  it  well.  Don’t  take 
me,  in  Heaven’s  name,  for  one  of  your  barren  com- 
plainers,  — querulous  cynics  who  have  neither  talent 
nor  faith  ! JL ’jxl.  at  work  ! ” — and  he  glanced  about 
him  and  lowered  his  voice  as  if  this  were  a quite 
peculiar  secret,  — “I’m  at  work  night  and  day.  I’ve 
undertaken  a creation ! I ’m  no  Moses  ; I ’m  only  a 
poor,  patient  artist ; but  it  would  be  a fine  thing  if  I 
were  to  cause  some  slender  stream  of  beauty  to  flow 
in  our  thirsty  land  ! Don’t  think  me  a monster  of 
conceit,”  he  went  on,  as  he  saw  me  smile  at  the  avidity 
with  which  he  adopted  my  fantasy ; “ I confess  that 
I ’m  in  one  of  those  moods  when  great  things  seem 
possible  ! This  is  one  of  my  nervous  nights,  — I dream 
waking ! When  the  south-wind  blows  over  Florence 
at  midnight,  it  seems  to  coax  the  soul  from  all  the  fair 
things  locked  away  in  her  churches  and  galleries ; it 
conies  into  my  own  little  studio  with  the  moonlight, 
and  sets  my  heart  beating  too  deeply  for  rest.  You 
see  I am  always  adding  a thought  to  my  conception ! 
This  evening  I felt  that  I could  n’t  sleep  unless  I had 
communed  with  the  genius  of  Michael ! ” 

He  seemed  deeply  versed  in  local  history  and  tra- 
dition, and  he  expatiated  con  amove  on  the  charms  of 
Florence.  I gathered  that  he  was  an  old  resident,  and 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


271 


that  he  had  taken  the  lovely  city  into  his  heart.  “ I 
owe  her  everything,”  he  declared.  “lids  only  since 
I came  here  that  I have  really  lived,  intellectually. 
One  by  one,  all  profane  desires,  all  mere  worldly  aims, 
have  , dropped  away  from  me,  and  left  me  nothing  but 
my  pencil,  my  little  note-book”  (and  he  tapped  his 
breast-pocket),  “ and  the  worship  of  the  pure  masters, 
— those  who  were  pure  because  they  were  innocent, 
and  those  who  were  pure  because  they  were  strong ! ” 

“And  have  you  been  very  productive  all  this 
time  ? ” I asked,  with  amenity. 

He  was  silent  awhile  before  replying.  “ Not  in 
the  vulgar  sense!”  he  said,  at  last.  “I  have  chosen 
never  to  manifest  myself  by  imperfection.  The  good 
in  every  performance  I have  reabsorbed  into  the  gen- 
erative force  of  new  creations  ; the  bad  — there ’s  al- 
ways plenty  of  that  — I have  religiously  destroyed. 
I may  say,  with  some  satisfaction,  that  I have  not 
added  a mite  to  the  rubbish  of  the  world.  As  a proof 
of  my  conscientiousness,”  — and  he  stopped  short,  and 
eyed  me  with  extraordinary  candor,  as  if  the  proof 
were  to  be  overwhelming,  — “I  Ve  never  sold  a pic- 
ture ! ‘ At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart ! ’ 

Do  you  remember  the  line  in  Browning  ? My  little 
studio  has  never  been  profaned  by  superficial,  feverish, 
mercenary  work.  It  ’s  a temple  of  labor,  but  of  leis- 
ure ! Art  is  long.  If  we  work  for  ourselves,  of  course 


272 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


we  must  hurry.  If  we  work  for  her,  we  must  often 
pause.  She  can  wait!” 

This  had  brought  us  to  my  hotel  door,  somewhat  to 
my  relief,  I confess,  for  I had  begun  to  feel  unequal 
to  the  society  of  a genius  of  this  heroic  strain.  I left 
him,  however,  not  without  expressing  a friendly  hope 
that  we  should  meet  again.  The  next  morning  my 
curiosity  had  not  abated  ; I was  anxious  to  see  him  by 
common  daylight.  I counted  upon  meeting  him  in  one 
of  the  many  aesthetic  haunts  of  Florence,  and  I was 
gratified  without  delay.  I found  him  in  the  course 
of  the  morning  in  the  Tribune  of  the  Uffizi,  — that 
little  treasure-chamber  of  perfect  works.  He  had 
turned  his  back  on  the  Yenus  de’  Medici,  and  with  his 
arms  resting  on  the  railing  which  protects  the  pictures, 
and  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  he  was  lost  in  the 
contemplation  of  that  superb  triptych  of  Andrea  Man- 
tegna, — a work  which  has  neither  the  material  splen- 
dor nor  the  commanding  force  of  some  of  its  neighbors, 
but  which,  glowing  there  with  the  loveliness  of  patient 
labor,  suits  possibly  a more  constant  need  of  the  soul. 
I looked  at  the  picture  for  some  time  over  his  shoul- 
der; at  last,  with  a heavy  sigh,  he  turned  away  and 
our  eyes  met.  As  he  recognized  me  a deep  blush  rose 
to  his  face ; he  fancied,  perhaps,  that  he  had  made  a 
fool  of  himself  overnight.  But  I offered  him  my  hand 
with  a frankness  which  assured  him  I was  not  a 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


273 


scoffer.  I knew  him  by  his  ardent  chevelure;  other- 
wise lie  was  much  altered.  His  midnight  mood  was 
over,  and  he  looked  as  haggard  as  an  actor  by  daylight. 
He  was  far  older  than  I had  supposed,  and  he  had  less 
bravery  of  costume  and  gesture.  He  seemed  the  quite 
poor,  patient  artist  he  had  proclaimed  himself,  and  the 
fact  that  he  had  never  sold  a picture  was  more  obvious 
than  glorious.  His  velvet  coat  was  threadbare,  and  his 
short  slouched  hat,  of  an  antique  pattern,  revealed  a 
rustiness  which  marked  it  an  “ original,”  and  not  one 
of  the  picturesque  reproductions  which  brethren  of  his 
craft  affect.  His  eye  was  mild  and  heavy,  and  his  ex- 
pression singularly  gentle  and  acquiescent ; the  more 
so  for  a certain  pallid  leanness  of  visage  which  I hardly 
knew  whether  to  refer  to  the  consuming  fire  of  genius 
or  to  a meagre  diet.  A very  little  talk,  however,  cleared 
his  brow  and  brought  back  his  eloquence. 

“And  this  is  your  first  visit  to  these  enchanted 
halls  ? ” he  cried.  “ Happy,  thrice  happy  youth  ! ” 
And  taking  me  by  the  arm,  he  prepared  to  lead  me 
to  each  of  the  pre-eminent  works  in  turn  and  show  me 
the  cream  of  the  gallery.  But  before  we  left  the  Man- 
tegna, he  pressed  my  arm  and  gave  it  a loving  look. 

was  not  in  a hurry,”  he  murmured.  “ He  knew 
nothing  of  ‘ raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay  ’ ! ” How 
sound  a critic  my  friend  was  I am  unable  to  say,  but 
he  was  an  extremely  amusing  one ; overflowing  with 


274 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


.opinions,  theories,  and  sympathies,  with  disquisition 
and  gossip  and  anecdote.  He  was  a shade  too  senti- 
mental for  my  own  sympathies,  and  I fancied  he  was 
rather  too  fond  of  superfine  discriminations  and  of  dis- 
covering subtle  intentions  in  the  shallow  felicities  of 
chance.  At  moments,  too,  he  plunged  into  the  sea  of 
metaphysics  and  floundered  awhile  in  waters  too  deep 
for  intellectual  security.  But  his  abounding  knowl- 
edge and  happy  judgment  told  a touching  story  of  long 
attentive  hours  in  this  worshipful  company ; there  was 
a reproach  to  my  wasteful  saunterings  in  so  devoted  a 
culture  of  opportunity.  “ There  are  two  moods,”  I 
remember  his  saying,  “ in  which  we  may  walk  through 
galleries,  — the  critical  and  the  ideal.  They  seize  us 
at  their  pleasure,  and  we  can  never*  tell  which  is  to 
take  its  turn.  The  critical  mood,  oddly,  is  the  genial 
one,  the  friendly,  the  condescending.  It  relishes  the 
pretty  trivialities  of  art,  its  vulgar  clevernesses,  its 
conscious  graces.  It  has  a kindly  greeting  for  any- 
thing which  looks  as  if,  according  to  his  light,  the 
painter  had  enjoyed  doing  it,  — for  the  little  Dutch 
cabbages  and  kettles,  for  the  taper  fingers  and  breezy 
mantles  of  late-coming  Madonnas,  for  the  little  blue- 
hilled  pastoral,  sceptical  Italian  landscapes^  Then 
there  are  the  days  of  fierce,  fastidious  longing,  — 
solemn  church-feasts  of  the  intellect,  — when  all  vul- 
gar effort  and  all  petty  success  is  a weariness,  and 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


275 


everything  but  the  best  — the  best  of  the  best  — 
disgusts.  In  these  hours  we  are  relentless  aristocrats 
of  taste.  We. ’ll  not  take  Michael  for  granted,  we  ’ll 
not  swallow  Raphael  whole  ! ” 

The  gallery  of  the  Uffizi  is  not  only  rich  in  its 
possessions,  but  peculiarly  fortunate  in  that  fine  ar- 
chitectural accident,  as  one  may  call  it,  which  unites 
it  — with  the  breadth  of  river  and  city  between  them 
— to  those  princely  chambers  of  the  Pitti  Palace.  The 
Louvre  and  the  Vatican  hardly  give  you  such  a sense 
of  sustained  enclosure  as  those  long  passages  projected 
over  street  and  stream  ta  establish  a sort  of  inviolate 
transition  between  the  two  palaces  of  art.  We  passed 
along  the  gallery  in  which  those  precious  drawings 
by  eminent  hands  hang  chaste  and  gray  above  the 
swirl  and  murmur  of  the  yellow  Arno,  and  reached 
the  ducal  saloons  of  the  Pitti.  Ducal  as  they  are,  it 
must  be  confessed  that  they  are  imperfect  as  show- 
rooms, and  that,  with  their  deep-set  windows  and  their 
massive  mouldings,  it  is  rather  a broken  light  that 
reaches  the  pictured  walls.  But  here  the  masterpieces 
hang  thick,  and  you  seem  to  see  them  in  a luminous 
atmosphere  of  their  own.  And  the  great  saloons,  with 
their  superb  dim  ceilings,  their  outer  wall  in  splendid 
shadow,  and  the  sombre  opposite  glow  of  mellow  can- 
vas and  dusky  gilding,  make,  themselves,  almost  as 
fine  a picture  as  the  Titians  and  Raphaels  they  im- 


276 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


perfectly  reveal.  We  lingered  briefly  before  many  a 
Raphael  and  Titian ; but  I saw  my  friend  was  impa- 
tient, and  I suffered  him  at  last  to  lead  me  directly  to 
the  goal  of  our  journey,  — the  most  tenderly  fair  of 
Raphael’s  Virgins,  the  Madonna  in  the  Chair.  Of  all 
the  fine  pictures  of  the  world,  it  seemed  to  me  this  is 
the  one  with  which  criticism  has  least  to  do.  None  be- 
trays less  effort,  less  of  the  mechanism  of  effect  and  of 
the  irrepressible  discord  between  conception  and  result, 
which  shows  dimly  in  so  many  consummate  works. 
Graceful,  human,  near  to  our  sympathies  as  it  is,  it 
has  nothing  of  manner,  of  method,  nothing,  almost,  of 
style ; it  blooms  there  in  rounded  softness,  as  instinct 
with  harmony  as  if  it  were  an  immediate  exhalation 
of  genius.  The  figure  melts  away  the  spectator’s  mind 
into  a sort  of  passionate  tenderness  which  he  knows 
not  whether  he  has  given  to  heavenly  purity  or  to 
earthly  charm.  JHe  is  intoxicated  with  the  fragrance 
of  the  tenderest  blossom  of  maternity  that  ever  bloomed 
on  earth. 

“ That ’s  what  I call  a fine  picture,”  said  my  com- 
panion, after  we  had  gazed  awhile  in  silence.  “ I 
have  a right  to  say  so,  fox  I ’ve  copied  it  so  often  and 
so  carefully  that  I could  repeat  it  now  with  my  eyes 
shut.  Other  works  are  of  Raphael : this  is  Raphael 
himself.  Others  you  can  praise,  you  can  qualify,  you 
can  measure,  explain,  account  for : this  you  can  only 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


277 


love  and  admire.  I don’t  know  in  what  seeming  he 
walked  among  men,  while  this  divine  mood  was  upon 
him  ; hut  after  it,  surely,  he  could  do  nothing  but  die ; 
this  world  had  nothing  more  to  teach  him.  Think 
of  it  awhile,  my  friend,  and  you  11  admit  that  I In 
not  raving.  Think  of  his  seeing  that  spotless  image, 
not  for  a moment,  for  a day,  in  a happy  dream,  as  a 
restless  fever-fit,  not  as  a poet  in  a five  minutes' 
frenzy,  time  to  snatch  his  phrase  and  scribble  his  im- 
mortal stanza,  but  for  days  together,  while  the  slow 
labor  of  the  brush  went  on,  while  the  foul  vapors  of 
life  interposed,  and  the  fancy  ached  with  tension, 
fixed,  radiant,  distinct,  as  we  see  it  now ! What  a 
master,  certainly  ! But  ah,  what  a seer  ! ” 

“ Don’t  you  imagine,"  I answered,  “ that  he  had  a 
model,  and  that  some  pretty  young  woman  — ” 

“As  pretty  a young  woman  as  you  please!  It 
does  n’t  diminish  the  miracle  ! He  took  his  hint,  of 
course,  and  the  young  woman,  possibly,  sat  smiling 
before  his  canvas.  But,  meanwhile,  the  painter’s  idea 
had  taken  wings.  Ho  lovely  human  outline  could 
charm  it  to  vulgar  fact.  He  saw  the  fair  form  made 
perfect;  he  rose  to  the  vision  without  tremor,  with- 
out effort  of  wing;  he  communed  with  it  face  to 
face,  and  resolved  into  finer  and  lovelier  truth  the 
purity  which  completes  it  as  the  perfume  completes 
the  rose.  That ’s  what  they  call  idealism  ; the  word ’s 


278 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


vastly  abused,  but  the  thing  is  good.  It  \s  nay  own 
creed,  at  any  rate.  Lovely  Madonna,  model  at  once 
and  muse,  I call  you  to  witness  that  I too  am  an 
idealist ! ” 

“ An  idealist,  then,”  I said,  half  jocosely,  wishing  to 
provoke  him  to  further  utterance,  “ is  a gentleman  who 
says  to  Nature  in  the  person  of  a beautiful  girl,  ‘ Go 
to,  you  ’re  all  wrong  ! Your  fine  is  coarse,  your  bright 
is  dim,  your  grace  is  gaucherie.  This  is  the  way  you 
should  have  done  it ! ’ Is  n’t  the  chance  against 
him?” 

He  turned  upon  me  almost  angrily,  but  perceiving 
the  genial  flavor  of  my  sarcasm,  he  smiled  gravely. 
“ Look  at  that  picture,”  he  said,  “ and  cease  your  ir- 
reverent mockery  ! Idealism  is  that ! There ’s  no 
explaining  it ; one  must  feel  the  flame ! It  says 
nothing  to  Nature,  or  to  any  beautiful  girl,  that 
they  ’ll  not  both  forgive  ! It  says  to  the  fair  wo- 
man, f Accept  me  as  your  artist-friend,  lend  me  your 
beautiful  face,  trust  me,  help  me,  and  your  eyes  shall 
be  half  my  masterpiece  ! ’ No  one  so  loves  and  respects 
the  rich  realities  of  nature  as  the  artist  whose  imagi- 
nation caresses  and  flatters  them.  He  knows  what  a 
fact  may  hold  (whether  Raphael  knew,  you  may  judge 
by  his  portrait  behind  us  there,  of  Tommaso  Inghi- 
rami) ; but  his  fancy  hovers  above  it,  as  Ariel  above 
the  sleeping  prince.  There  is  only  one  Raphael,  but 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


279 


an  artist  may  still  be  an  artist.  As  I said  last  night, 
the  days  of  illumination  are  gone ; visions  are  rare  ; 
we  have  to  look  long  to  see  them.  But  in  meditation 
we  may  still  woo  the  ideal ; round  it,  smooth  it,  per- 
fect it.  The  result  — the  result  ” (here  his  voice  fal- 
tered suddenly,  and  he  fixed  his  eyes  for  a moment  on 
the  picture ; when  they  met  my  own  again  they  were 
full  of  tears)  — “ the  result  may  be  less  than  this  ; but 
still  it  may  be  good,  it  may  be  great ! ” he  cried  with 
vehemence.  “ It  may  hang  somewhere,  in  after  years, 
in  goodly  company,  and  keep  the  artist’s  memory 
warm.  Think  of  being  known  to  mankind  after  some 
such  fashion  as  this  ! of  hanging  here  through  the  slow 
centuries  in  the  gaze  of  an  altered  world,  living  on  and 
on  in  the  cunning  of  an  eye  and  hand  that  are  part  of 
the  dust  of  ages,  a delight  and  a law  to  remote  genera- 
tions ; making  beauty  a force  and  purity  an  example !” 

“ Heaven  forbid ! ” I said,  smiling,  “ that  I should 
take  the  wind  out  of  your  sails  ; but  does  n’t  it  oc- 
cur to  you  that  beside  being  strong  in  his  genius, 
Raphael  was  happy  in  a certain  good  faith  of  which 
we  have  lost  the  trick  ? There  are  people,  I know, 
who  deny  that  his  spotless  Madonnas  are  anything 
more  than  pretty  blondes  of  that  period,  enhanced  by 
the  Raphaelesque  touch,  which  they  declare  is  a pro- 
fane touch.  Be  that  as  it  may,  people’s  religious  and 
aesthetic  needs  went  hand  in  hand,  and  there  was,  as  I 


280 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


may  say,  a demand  for  the  Blessed  Virgin,  visible  and 
adorable,  which  must  have  given  firmness  to  the  art- 
ist’s hand.  I ’in  afraid  there  is  no  demand  now.” 

My  companion  seemed  painfully  puzzled;  he  shiv- 
ered, as  it  were,  in  this  chilling  blast  of  scepticism. 
Then  shaking  his  head  with  sublime  confidence : 
“ There  is  always  a demand  ! ” he  cried ; “ that  inef- 
fable type  is  one  of  the  eternal  needs  of  man’s 
heart ; but  pious  souls  long  for  it  in  silence,  almost 
in  shame.  Let  it  appear,  and  this  faith  grows  brave. 
How  should  it  appear  in  this  corrupt  generation  ? It 
can’t  be  made  to  order.  It  could,  indeed,  when  the 
order  came,  trumpet-toned,  from  the  lips  of  the  Church 
herself,  and  was  addressed  to  genius  panting  with  in- 
spiration. But  it  can  spring  now  only  from  the  soil  of 
passionate  labor  and  culture.  Do  you  really  fancy 
that  while,  from  time  to  time,  a man  of  complete  artis- 
tic vision  is  bom  into  the  wrorld,  that  image  can  per- 
ish ? The  man  who  paints  it  has  painted  everything. 
The  subject  admits  of  every  perfection,  — form,  color, 
expression,  composition.  It  can  be  as  simple  as  you 
please,  and  yet  as  rich,  as  broad  and  pure,  and  yet  as 
full  of  delicate  detail.  Think  of  the  chance  for  flesh 
in  the  little  naked,  nestling  child,  irradiating  divinity ; 
of  the  chance  for  drapery  in  the  chaste  and  ample  gar- 
ment of  the  mother ! Think  of  the  great  story  you 
compress  into  that  simple  theme  ! Think,  above  all, 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


281 


of  the  mother’s  face  and  its  ineffable  suggestiveness,  of 
the  mingled  burden  of  joy  and  trouble,  the  tenderness 
turned  to  worship,  and  the  worship  turned  to  far-seeing 
pity  ! Then  look  at  it  all  in  perfect  line  and  lovely 
color,  breathing  truth  and  beauty  and  mastery  ! ” 

“ Anch’  io  son  pittore  ! ” I cried.  “ Unless  I ’m  mis- 
taken, you ’ve  a masterpiece  on  the  stocks.  If  you  put 
all  that  ink,  you  11  do  more  than  Bapliael  himself  did. 
Let  me  know  when  your  picture  is  finished,  and 
wherever  in  the  wide  world  I may  be,  1 11  post  back 
to  Florence  and  make  my  bow  to  — the  Madonna  of 
the  future  ! ” 

He  blushed  vividly  and  gave  a heavy  sigh,  half  of 
protest,  half  of  resignation.  “I  don’t  often  mention 
my  picture,  in  so  many  words.  I detest  this  modern 
custom  of  premature  publicity.  A great  work  needs 
silence,  privacy,  mystery  even.  And  then,  do  you 
know,  people  are  so  cruel,  so  frivolous,  so  unable  to 
imagine  a man’s  wishing  to  paint  a Madonna  at  this 
time  of  day,  that  I ’ve  been  laughed  at,  — laughed  at, 
sir!”  And  his  blush  deepened  to  crimson.  “I  don’t 
know  what  has  prompted  me  to  be  so  frank  and  trust- 
ful with  you.  You  look  as  if  you  would  n’t  laugh  at 
me.  My  dear  young  man,”  — and  he  laid  his  hand  on 
my  arm,  — “ I ’m  worthy  of  respect.  Whatever  my 
talents  may  be,  I ’m  honest.  There ’s  nothing  gro- 
tesque in  a pure  ambition,  or  in  a life  devoted  to  it ! ” 


282 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


There  was  something  so  sternly  sincere  in  his  look 
and  tone,  that  further  questions  seemed  impertinent. 
I had  repeated  opportunity  to  ask  them,  however ; for 
after  this  we  spent  much  time  together.  Daily,  for  a 
fortnight,  we  met  by  appointment,  to  see  the  sights. 
He  knew  the  city  so  well,  he  had  strolled  and  lounged 
so  often  through  its  streets  and  churches  and  galleries, 
lie  was  so  deeply  versed  in  its  greater  and  lesser  mem- 
ories, so  imbued  with  the  local  genius,  that  he  was  an 
altogether  ideal  valet  de  place,  and  I was  glad  enough 
to  leave  my  Murray  at  home,  and  gather  facts  and 
opinions  alike  from  his  gossiping  commentary.  He 
talked  of  Florence  like  a lover,  and  admitted  that  it 
was  a very  old  affair ; he  had  lost  his  heart  to  her  at 
first  sight.  “ It ’s  the  fashion  to  talk  of  all  cities  as 
feminine,  he  said,  “ but,  as  a rule,  it ’s  a monstrous 
mistake.  Is  Florence  of  the  same  sex  as  Hew  York, 
as  Chicago?  She ’s  the.  sole  true  woman  of  them  all; 
one  feels  towards  her  as  a lad  in  his  teens  feels  to 
some  beautiful  older  woman  with  a ‘ history.’  It ’s  a 
sort  of  aspiring  gallantry  she  creates.”  This  disinter- 
ested passion  seemed  to  stand  my  friend  in  stead  of 
the  common  social  ties ; he  led  a lonely  life,  apparent- 
ly, and  cared  for  nothing  but  his  work.  I was  duly 
flattered  by  his  having  taken  my  frivolous  self  into  his 
favor,  and  by  his  generous  sacrifice  of  precious  hours, 
as  they  must  have  been,  to  my  society.  We  spent 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


283 


many  of  these  hours  among  those  early  paintings  in 
which  Florence  is  so  rich,  returning  ever  and  anon 
with  restless  sympathies  to  wonder  whether  these  ten- 
der blossoms  of  art  had  not  a vital  fragrance  and  savor 
more  precious  than  the  full-fruited  knowledge  of  the 
later  works.  We  lingered  often  in  the  sepulchral 
chapel  of  San  Lorenzo,  and  watched  Michael  Angelo’s 
dim-visaged  warrior  sitting  there  like  some  awful 
Genius  of  Doubt  and  brooding  behind  his  eternal 
mask  upon  the  mysteries  of  life.  We  stood  more 
than  once  in  the  little  convent  chambers  where  Fra 
Angelico  wrought  as  if  an  angel  indeed  had  held  his 
hand,  and  gathered  that  sense  of  scattered  dews  and 
early  bird-notes  which  makes  an  hour  among  his 
relics  seem  like  a morning  stroll  in  some  monkish 
garden.  We  did  all  this  and  much  more,  — wandered 
into  dark  chapels,  damp  courts,  and  dusty  palace- 
rooms,  in  quest  of  lingering  hints  of  fresco  and  lurking 
treasures  of  carving. 

I was  more  and  more  impressed  with  my  compan- 
ion’s prodigious  singleness  of  purpose.  Everything  was 
a pretext  for  some  wildly  idealistic  rhapsody  or  revery. 
Nothing  could  be  seen  or  said  that  did  not  end 
sooner  or  later  in  a glowing  discourse  on  the  true, 
the  beautiful,  and  the  good.  If  my  friend  was  not  a 
genius,  he  was  certainly  a monomaniac ; and  I found 
as  great  a fascination  in  watching  the  odd  lights  and 


284 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


shades  of  his  character  as  if  he  had  been  a creature 
from  another  planet.  He  seemed,  indeed,  to  know 
very  little  of  this  one,  and  lived  and  moved  altogether 
in  his  own  little  province]  of  art.  A creature  more 
unsullied  by  the  world  it  is  impossible  to  conceive, 
and  I often  thought  it  a flaw  in  his  artistic  character 
that  he  had  n’t  a harmless  vice  or  two.  It  amused  me 
vastly  at  times  to  think  that  he  was  -of  our  shrewd 
Yankee  race;  but,  after  all,  thfee  could  be  no  better 
token  of  his  American  origin  than  this  high  aesthetic 
fever.  The  very  heat  of  his  devotion  was  a sign  of 
conversion ; those  born  to  European  opportunity  man- 
age better  to  reconcile  enthusiasm  with  comfort.  He 
had,  moreover,  all  our  native  mistrust  for  intellectual 
discretion  and  our  native  relish  for  sonorous  superla- 
tives. As  a critic  he  was  vastly  more  generous  than 
just,  and  his  mildest  terms  of  approbation  were  “stupen- 
dous,” “transcendent,”  and  “incomparable.”  The  small 
change  of  admiration  seemed  to  him  no  coin  for  a gen- 
tleman to  handle ; and  yet,  frank  as  he  was  intellectu- 
ally, he  was,  personally,  altogether  a mystery.  His 
professions,  somehow,  were  all  half-professions,  and 
his  allusions  to  his  work  and  circumstances  left  some- 
thing dimly  ambiguous  in  the  background.  He  was 
modest  and  proud,  and  never  spoke  of  his  domestic 
matters.  He  was  evidently  poor ; yet  lie  must  have 
had  some  slender  independence,  since  he  could  afford 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


285 

f"  ' l/vr"-,  W 


to  make  so  merry  over  the  fact  that  his  culture  of 
ideal  beauty  had  never  brought  him  a penny.  His 
poverty,  I supposed,  was  his  motive  for  neither  invit- 
ing me  to  his  lodging  nor  mentioning  its  whereabouts. 
We  met  either  in  some  public  place  or  at  my  hotel, 
where  I entertained  him  as  freely  as  I might  without 
appearing  to  be  prompted  by  charity.  He  seemed 
always  hungry,  which  was  his  nearest  approach  to  a 
“ redeeming  vice.”  I made  a point  of  asking  no  im- 
pertinent questions,  but,  each  time  we  met,  I ventured 
to  make  some  respectful  allusion  to  the  magnum  opus , 
to  inquire,  as  it  were,  as  to  its  health  and  progress. 
“We’re  getting  on,  with  the  Lord’s  help,”  he  would 
say  with  a grave  smile.  “We’re  doing  well.  You  see 
I have  the  grand  advantage  that  I lose  no  time. 
These  hours  I spend  with  you  are  pure  profit. 
They’re  suggestive!  Just  as  the  truly. religious  soul 
is  always  at  worship,  the  genuine  artist  is  always  in 
labor.  He  takes  his  property  wherever  he  finds  it, 
and  learns  some  precious  secret  from  every  object 
that  stands  up  in  the  light.  If  you  but  knew  the 
rapture  of  observation  ! I gather  with  every  glance 
some  hint  for  light,  for  color  or  relief!  When  I get 
home,  I pour  out  my  treasures  into  the  lap  of  my 
Madonna.  0,  I ’m  not  idle  ! Nulla  dies  sine  lineal 
I was  introduced  in  Florence  to  an  American  lady 
whose  drawing-room  had  long  formed  an  attractive 


286 


: j a tt  <h(  # t/S>  > < 

fC^nj  ^fAut-rV J/^Oto 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


place  of  reunion  for  the  foreign  residents.  She  lived 
on  a fourth  floor,  and  she  was  not  rich ; hut  she 
offered  her  visitors  very  good  tea,  little  cakes  at 
option,  and  conversation  not  quite  to  match.  Her 
conversation  had  mainly  an  aesthetic  flavor,  for  Mrs. 
Coventry  was  famously  “ artistic”  Her  apartment  was 
a sort  of  Pitti  Palace  cm  petit  pied . She  possessed 
“ early  masters  ” by  the  dozen,  — a cluster  of  Peruginos 
in  her  dining-room,  a Giotto  in  her  boudoir,  an  An- 
drea del  Sarto  over  her  parlor  chimney-piece.  Backed 
by  these  treasures,  and  by  innumerable  bronzes,  mo- 
saics, majolica  dishes,  and  little  worm-eaten  diptychs 
showing  angular  saints  on  gilded  panels,  our  hostess 
enjoyed  the  dignity  of  a sort  of  high -priestess  of  the 
arts.  She  always  wore  on  her  bosom  a huge  minia- 
ture copyj}Pfhe  Madonna  della  Seggiola.  Gaining  her 
ear  quietly  one  evening  I asked  her  whether  she 
knew  that  remarkable  man,  Mr.  Theobald. 

“ Know  him ! ” she  exclaimed;  “ know  poor  Theobald  ! 
All  Florence  knows  him,  his  flame-colored  locks,  his 
black  velvet  coat,  his  interminable  harangues  on  the 
beautiful,  and  his  wondrous  Madonna  that  mortal  eye 
has  never  seen,  and  that  mortal  patience  has  quite 
given  up  expecting.” 

“ Eeally,”  I cried,  “ you  don’t  believe  in  his  Madon- 


na?” 


a My  dear  ingenuous  youth,”  rejoined  my  shrewd 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


287 


friend,  “ has  he  made  a convert  of  you  ? Well,  we  all 
believed  in  him  once ; he  came  down  upon  Florence  and 
took  the  town  by  storm.  Another  Rajpha'el,  at  the 
very  least,  had  been  born  among  men,  and  poor,  dear 
America  was  to  have  the  credit  of  him.  Had  n’t  he  the 
very  hair  of  Raphael  flowing  down  on  his  shoulders  ? 
The  hair,  alas,  but  not  the  head ! We  swallowed  him 
whole,  however ; we  hung  upon  his  lips  and  proclaimed 
his  genius  on  the  house-tops.  The  women  were  all 
dying  to  sit  to  him  for  their  portraits  and  be  made  im- 
mortal, like  Leonardo’s  Joconde.  We  decided  that  his 
manner  was  a good  deal  like  Leonardo’s,  — mysterious 
and  inscrutable  and  fascinating.  Mysterious  it  certain- 
ly was ; mystery  was  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  it. 
The  months  passed  by,  and  the  miracle  hung  fire ; our 
master  never  produced  his  masterpiece.  He  passed 
hours  in  the  galleries  and  churches,  posturing,  musing, 
and  gazing ; he  talked  more  than  ever  about  the  beau- 
tiful, but  he  never  put  brush  to  canvas.  We  had  all 
subscribed,  as  it  were,  to  the  great  performance ; but 
as  it  never  came  off,  people  began  to  ask  for  their 
money  again.  I was  one  of  the  last  of  the  faithful ; I 
carried  devotion  so  far  as  to  sit  to  him  for  my  head. 
If  you  could  have  seen  the  horrible  creature  he  made 
of  me,  you  would  admit  that  even  a woman  with  no 
more  vanity  than  will  tie  her  bonnet  straight  must 
have  cooled  off  then.  The  man  did  n’t  know  the  very 


288 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


alphabet  of  drawing ! Ilis  strong  point,  he  intimated, 
was  his  sentiment ; but  is  it  a consolation,  when  one  has 
been  painted  a fright,  to  know  it  has  been  done  with 
peculiar  gusto  ? One  by  one,  I confess,  we  fell  away 
from  the  faith,  and  Mr.  Theobald  did  n’t  lift  his  little 
finger  to  preserve  us.  At  the  first  hint  that  we  were 
tired  of  waiting  and  that  we  should  like  the  show  to 
begin,  he  was  off  in  a huff.  ‘ Great  work  requires  time, 
contemplation,  privacy,  mystery ! 0 ye  of  little  faith ! 9 

We  answered  that  we  did  n’t  insist  on  a great  work ; that 
the  five-act  tragedy  might  come  at  his  convenience ; 
that  we  merely  asked  for  something  to  keep  us  from 
yawning,  some  inexpensive  little  lever  de  ridcau.  Here- 
upon the  poor  man  took  his  stand  as  a genius  miscon- 
ceived and  persecuted,  an  dme  mdconnue,  and  washed 
his  hands  of  us  from  that  hour ! No,  I believe  he  does 
me  the  honor  to  consider  me  the  head  and  front  of  the 
conspiracy  formed  to  nip  his  glory  in  the  bud,  — a bud 
that  has  taken  twenty  years  to  blossom.  Ask  him  if 
he  knows  me,  and  he ’d  tell  you  I ’m  a horribly  ugly 
old  woman  who  has  vowed  his  destruction  because  he 
would  n’t  paint  her  portrait  as  a pendant  to  Titian’s 
Flora.  I fancy  that  since  then  he  has  had  none  but 
chance  followers,  innocent  strangers  like  yourself,  who 
have  taken  him  at  his  word.  The  mountain ’s  still  in 
labor ; I ’ve  not  heard  that  the  mouse  has  been  born. 
I pass  him  once  in  a while  in  the  galleries,  and  he  fixes 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE.  289 

his  great  dark  eyes  on  me  with  a sublimity  of  indiffer- 
ence, as  if  I were  a bad  copy  of  a Sassoferrato  ! It  is 
a long  time  ago  now  that  I heard  that  he  was  making 
studies  for  a Madonna  who  was  to  be  a resume  of  all 
the  other  Madonnas  of  the  Italian  school,  — like  that 
antique  Venus  who  borrowed  a nose  from  one  great 
image  and  an  ankle  from  another.  It’s  certainly  a 

masterly  idea.  The  parts  may be  fine,  but  when 

I think  of  my  unhappy  portrait  I tremble  for  the 
whole.  He  has  communicated  this  striking  idea  un- 
der the  pledge  of  solemn  secrecy  to  fifty  chosen 
spirits,  to  every  one  he  has  ever  been  able  to  button- 
hole for  five  minutes.  I suppose  he  wants  to  get 
an  order  for  it,  and  he ’s  not  to  blame ; for  Heaven 
knows  how  he  lives.  I see  by  your  blush,”  my  host- 
ess frankly  continued,  “that  you  have  been  honored 
with  his  confidence.  You  need  n’t  be  ashamed,  my 
dear  young  man;  a man  of  your  age  is  none  the 
worse  for  a certain  generous  credulity.  Only  allow 
me  to  give  you  a word  of  advice:  keep  your  cre- 
dulity out  of  your  pockets ! Don’t  pay  for  the  pic- 
ture till  it ’s  delivered.  You  ’ve  not  been  treated  to  a 
peep  at  it,  I imagine.  Ho  more  have  your  fifty  prede- 
cessors in  the  faith.  There  are  people  who  doubt 
whether  there  is  any  picture  to  be  seen.  I fancy,  my- 
self, that  if  one  were  to  get  into  his  studio,  one  would 
find  something  very  like  the  picture  in  that  tale  of 

13 


s 


290 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


Balzac’s,  — a mere  mass  of  incoherent  scratches  and 
daubs,  a jumble  of  dead  paint ! ” 

I listened  to  this  pungent  recital  in  silent  won- 
der. It  had  a painfully  plausible  sound,  and  was 
not  inconsistent  with  certain  shy  suspicions  of  my 
own.  My  hostess  was  a clever  woman,  and  presum- 
ably a generous  one.  I determined  to  let  my  judg- 
ment wait  upon  events.  Possibly  she  was  right ; 
but  if  she  was  wrong,  she  was  cruelly  wrong!  Her 
version  of  my  friend’s  eccentricities  made  me  impa- 
tient to  see  him  again  and  examine  him  in  the 
light  of  public  opinion.  On  our  next  meeting,  I 
immediately  asked  him  if  he  knew  Mrs.  Coventry. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm  and  gave  me  a sad 
smile.  “ Has  she  taxed  your  gallantry  at  last  ? ” he 
asked.  “ She ’s  a foolish  woman.  She ’s  frivolous 
and  heartless,  and  she  pretends  to  be  serious  and 
kind.  She  prattles  about  Giotto’s  second  manner 
and  Yittoria  Colonna’s  liaison  with  ‘ Michael,’  — one 
would  think  that  Michael  lived  across  the  way  and 
was  expected  in  to  take  a hand  at  whist,  — but  she 
knows  as  little  about  art,  and  about  the  conditions 
of  production,  as  I know  about  Buddhism.  She 
profanes  sacred  words,”  he  added  more  vehemently, 
after  a pause.  “ She  cares  for  you  only  as  some 
one  to  hand  teacups  in  that  horrible  mendacious 
little  parlor  of  hers,  with  its  trumpery  Peruginos ! 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


291 


If  you  can’t  dash  off  a new  picture  every  three  days, 
and  let  her  hand  it  round  among  her  guests,  she  tells 
them  in  plain  English  you  ’re  an  impostor ! ” 

This  attempt  of  mine  to  test  Mrs.  Coventry’s  ac- 
curacy was  made  in  the  course  of  a late  afternoon 
walk  to  the  quiet  old  church  of  San  Miniato,  on 
one  of  the  hill-tops  which  directly  overlook  the  -city, 
from  whose  gate  you  are  guided  to  it  by  a stony 
and  cypress-bordered  walk,  which  seems  a most  fit- 
ting avenue  to  a shrine.  No  spot  is  more  propi- 
tious to  lingering  repose*  than  the  broad  terrace  in 
front  of  the  church,  where,  lounging  against  the  para- 
pet, you  may  glance  in  slow  alternation  from  the 
black  and  yellow  marbles  of  the  church  fagade, 
seamed  and  cracked  with  time  and  wind-sown  with 
a tender  flora  of  its  own,  down  to  the  full  domes 
and  slender  towers  of  Florence  and  over  to  the  blue 
sweep  of  the  wide-mouthed  cup  of  mountains  into 
whose  hollow  the  little  treasure-city  has  been  dropped. 
I had  proposed,  as  a diversion  from  the  painful  mem- 
ories evoked  by  Mrs.  Coventry’s  name,  that  Theo- 
bald should  go  with  me  the  next  evening  to  the 
opera,  where  some  rarely  played  work  was  to  be 
given.  He  declined,  as  I had  half  expected,  for  I 
had  observed  that  he  regularly  kept  his  evenings  in 
reserve,  and  never  alluded  to  his  manner  of  pass- 


* 1869. 


292 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


ing  them.  “You  have  reminded  me  before,1 ” I said, 
smiling,  “ of  that  charming  speech  of  the  Florentine 
painter  in  Alfred  de  Musset’s  Lorenzaccio : ‘ I do 
no  harm  to  any  one . I pass  my  days  in  my  studio. 
On  Sunday , I go  to  the  Annunziata  or  to  Santa  Maria  ; 
the  monks  think  I have  a voice  ; they  dress  me  in  a white 
gown  and  a red  cap , and  I take  a share  in  the  choruses , 
sometimes  I do  a little  solo  : these  are  the  only  times  I go 
into  public.  In  the  evening , I visit  my  sweetheart  ; when 
the  night  is  fine , we  pass  it  on  her  balcony I don’t 
know  whether  you  have  a sweetheart,  or  whether  she 
has  a balcony.  But  if  you  ’re  so  happy,  it ’s  certainly 
better  than  trying  to  find  a charm  in  a third-rate 
prima  donna.” 

He  made  no  immediate  response,  but  at  last  he 
turned  to  me  solemnly.  “ Can  you  look  upon  a beau- 
tiful woman  with  reverent  eyes  ? ” 

“ Beally,”  I said,  “ I don’t  pretend  to  be  sheepish, 
but  I should  be  sorry  to  think  I was  impudent.”  And 
I asked  him  what  in  the  world  he  meant.  When  at 
last  I had  assured  him  that  I could  undertake  to  tem- 
per admiration  with  respect,  he  informed  me,  with  an 
air  of  religious  mystery,  that  it  was  in  his  power  to 
introduce  me  to  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Italy. 
“ A beauty  with  a soul ! ” 

“ Upon  my  word,”  I cried,  “ you  ’re  extremely  for- 
tunate. I shall  rejoice  to  witness  the  conjunction.” 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


293 


“ This  woman’s  beauty,”  he  answered,  “ is  a lesson,  a 
morality,  a poem ! It ’s  my  daily  study.” 

Of  course,  after  this,  I lost  no  time  in  reminding 
him  of  what,  before  we  parted,  had  taken  the  shape  of 
a promise.  “ I feel  somehow,”  he  had  said,  “ as  if  it 
were  a sort  of  violation  of  that  privacy  in  which  I have 
always  contemplated  her  beauty.  This  is  friendship, 
my  friend.  No  hint  of  her  existence  has  ever  fallen 
from  my  lips.  But  with  too  great  a familiarity  we  are 
apt  to  lose  a sense  of  the  real  value  of  things,  and  you 
perhaps  will  throw  some  new  light  upon  it  and  offer  a 
fresher  interpretation.”  We  went  accordingly  by  ap- 
pointment to  a certain  ancient  house  in  the  heart  of 
Florence,  — the  precinct  of  the  Mercato  Yecchio, — 
and  climbed  a dark,  steep  staircase  to  the  very  summit 
of  the  edifice.  Theobald’s  beauty  seemed  as  jealously 
exalted  above  the  line  of  common  vision  as  the  Belle 
aux  Cheveux  d’Or  in  her  tower-top.  He  passed  with- 
out knocking  into  the  dark  vestibule  of  a small  apart- 
ment, and,  flinging  open  an  inner  door,  ushered  me 
into  a small  saloon.  The  room  seemed  mean  and 
sombre,  though  I caught  a glimpse  of  white  curtains 
swaying  gently  at  an  open  window.  At  a table,  near 
a lamp,  sat  a woman  dressed  in  black,  working  at  a 
piece  of  embroidery.  As  Theobald  entered,  she  looked 
up  calmly,  with  a smile ; but  seeing  me,  she  made  a 
movement  of  surprise,  and  rose  with  a kind  of  stately 


294 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


grace.  Theobald  stepped  forward,  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it,  with  an  indescribable  air  of  immemorial 
usage.  As  he  bent  his  head,  she  looked  at  me  askance, 
and  I thought  she  blushed. 

“ Behold  the  Serafina ! ” said  Theobald,  frankly,  wav- 
ing me  forward.  “ This  is  a friend,  and  a lover  of  the 
arts,”  he  added,  introducing  me.  I received  a smile,  a 
courtesy,  and  a request  to  be  seated. 

The  most  beautiful  woman  in  Italy  was  a person  of 
a generous  Italian  type  and  of  a great  simplicity  of 
demeanor.  Seated  again  at  her  lamp,  with  her  em- 
broidery, she  seemed  to  have  nothing  whatever  to  say. 
Theobald,  bending  towards  her  in  a sort  of  Platonic 
ecstasy,  asked  her  a dozen  paternally  tender  questions 
as  to  her  health,  her  state  of  mind,  her  occupations, 
and  the  progress  of  her  embroidery,  which  he  examined 
minutely  and  summoned  me  to  admire.  It  was  some 
portion  of  an  ecclesiastical  vestment,  — yellow  satin 
wrought  with  an  elaborate  design  of  silver  and  gold. 
She  made  answer  in  a full,  rich  voice,  but  with  a 
brevity  which  I hesitated  whether  to  attribute  to  na- 
tive reserve  or  to  the  profane  constraint  of  my  pres- 
ence. She  had  been  that  morning  to  confession ; she 
had  also  been  to  market,  and  had  bought  a chicken 
for  dinner.  She  felt  very  happy ; she  had  nothing  to 
complain  of,  except  that  the  people  for  whom  she  was 
making  her  vestment,  and  who  furnished  her  materials, 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


295 


should  he  willing  to  put  such  rotten  silver  thread  into 
the  garment,  as  one  might  say,  of  the  Lord.  From 
time  to  time,  as  she  took  her  slow  stitches,  she  raised 
her  eyes  and  covered  me  with  a glance  which  seemed 
at  first  to  denote  a placid  curiosity,  but  in  which,  as 
I saw  it  repeated,  I thought  I perceived  the  dim 
glimmer  of  an  attempt  to  establish  an  understanding 
with  me  at  the  expense  of  our  companion.  Mean- 
while, as  mindful  as  possible  of  Theobald’s  injunction 
of  reverence,  I considered  the  lady’s  personal  claims 
to  the  fine  compliment  he  had  paid  her. 

That  she  was  indeed  a beautiful  woman  I perceived, 
after  recovering  from  the  surprise  of  finding  her  with- 
out the  freshness  of  youth.  Her  beauty  was  of  a sort 
which,  in  losing  youth,  loses  little  of  its  essential 
charm,  expressed  for  the  most  part  as  it  was  in  form 
and  structure,  and,  as  Theobald  would  have  said,  in 
“ composition.”  She  was  broad  and  ample,  low-browed 
and  large-eyed,  dark  and  pale.  Her  thick  brown  hair 
hung  low  beside  her  cheek  and  ear,  and  seemed  to 
drape  her  head  with  a covering  as  chaste  and  formal 
as  the  veil  of  a nun.  The  poise  and  carriage  of  her 
head  was  admirably  free  and  noble,  and  the  more 
effective  that  their  freedom  was  at  moments  discreetly 
corrected  by  a little  sanctimonious  droop,  which  har- 
monized admirably  with  the  level  gaze  of  her  dark 
and  quiet  eye.  A strong,  serene  physical  nature  and 


296 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


the  placid  temper  which  comes  of  no  nerves  and  no 
troubles  seemed  this  lady’s  comfortable  portion.  She 
was  dressed  in  .plain  dull  black,  save  for  a sort  of  dark 
blue  kerchief  which  was  folded  across  her  bosom  and 
exposed  a glimpse  of  her  massive  throat.  Over  this 
kerchief  was  suspended  a little  silver  cross.  I admired 
her  greatly,  and  yet  with  a large  reserve.  A certain 
mild  intellectual  apathy  belonged  properly  to  her  type 
of  beauty,  and  had  always  seemed  to  round  and  enrich 
it;  but  this  bourgeoise  Egeria,  if  I viewed  her  right, 
betrayed  a rather  vulgar  stagnation  of  mind.  There 
might  have  been  once  a dim,  spiritual  light  in  her 
face;  but  it  had  long  since  begun  to  wane.  And 
furthermore,  in  plain  prose,  she  was  growing  stout. 
My  disappointment  amounted  very  nearly  to  complete 
disenchantment  when  Theobald,  as  if  to  facilitate  my 
covert  inspection,  declaring  that  the  lamp  was  very 
dim  and  that  she  would  ruin  her  eyes  without  more 
light,  rose  and  fetched  a couple  of  candles  from  the 
mantel-piece,  which  he  placed  lighted  on  the  table. 
In  this  brighter  illumination  I perceived  that  our  host- 
ess was  decidedly  an  elderly  woman.  She  was  neither 
haggard  nor  worn  nor  gray;  she  was  simply  coarse. 
The  “ soul  ” which  Theobald  had  promised  seemed 
scarcely  worth  making  such  a point  of;  it  was  no 
deeper  mystery  than  a sort  of  matronly  mildness  of 
lip  and  brow.  I would  have  been  ready  even  to  declare 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


297 


that  that  sanctified  bend  of  the  head  was  nothing 
more  than  the  trick  of  a person  constantly  working 
at  embroidery.  It  occurred  to  me  even  that  it  was 
a trick  of  a less  innocent  sort;  for,  in  spite  of  the 
mellow  quietude  of  her  wits,  this  stately  needlewoman 
dropped  a hint  that  she  took  the  situation  rather  less 
au  serieux  than  her  friend.  When  he  rose  to  light 
the  candles,  she  looked  across  at  me  with  a quick, 
intelligent  smile  and  tapped  her  forehead  with  her 
forefinger ; then,  as  from  a sudden  feeling  of  compas- 
sionate loyalty  to  poor  Theobald,  I preserved  a blank 
face,  she  gave  a little  shrug  and  resumed  her  work. 

What  was  the  relation  of  this  singular  couple  ? 
Was  he  the  most  ardent  of  friends  or  the  most  rev- 
erent of  lovers  ? Did  she  regard  him  as  an  eccen- 
tric youth  whose  benevolent  admiration  of  her  beauty 
she  was  not  ill-pleased  to  humor  at  this  small  cost 
of  having  him  climb  into  her  little  parlor  and  gossip 
of  summer  nights  ? With  her  decent  and  sombre 
dress,  her  simple  gravity,  and  that  fine  piece  of  priestly 
needlework,  she  looked  like  some  pious  lay-member  of 
a sisterhood,  living  by  special  permission  outside  her 
convent  walls.  Or  was  she  maintained  here  aloft  by 
her  friend  in  comfortable  leisure,  so  that  he  might 
have  before  him  the  perfect,  eternal  type,  uncorrupted 
and  untarnished  by  the  struggle  for  existence?  Her 
shapely  hands,  I observed,  were  very  fair  and  white ; 

13* 


298 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


they  lacked  the  traces  of  what  is  called  “ honest 
toil” 

“ And  the  pictures,  how  do  they  come  on  ? ” she 
asked  of  Theobald,  after  a long  pause. 

“ Finely,  finely ! I have  here  a friend  whose  sym- 
pathy and  encouragement  give  me  new  faith  and 
ardor” 

Our  hostess  turned  to  me,  gazed  at  me  a moment 
rather  inscrutably,  and  then  tapping  her  forehead 
with  the  gesture  she  had  used  a minute  before,  “He 
has  a magnificent  genius ! ” she  said,  with  perfect 
gravity. 

“ I ’m  inclined  to  think  so,”  I answered,  with  a 
smile. 

“ Eh,  why  do  you  smile  ? ” she  cried.  “ If  you 
doubt  it,  you  must  see  the  bambino  /”  And  she  took 
the  lamp  and  conducted  me  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  where  on  the  wall,  in  a plain  black  frame, 
hung  a large  drawing  in  red  chalk.  Beneath  it  was 
festooned  a little  bowl  for  holy-water.  The  drawing 
represented  a very  young  child,  entirely  naked,  half 
nestling  back  against  his  mother’s  gown,  but  with 
his  two  little  arms  outstretched,  as  if  in  the  act  of 
benediction.  It  was  executed  with  singular  freedom 
and  power,  and  yet  seemed  vivid  with  the  sacred 
bloom  of  infancy.  A sort  of  dimpled  elegance  and 
grace,  mingled  with  its  boldness,  recalled  the  touch 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


299 


of  Correggio.  “ That ’s  what  he  can  do ! ” said  my 
hostess.  “ It  ’s  the  blessed  little  boy  whom  I lost. 
It ’s  his  very  image,  and  the  Signor  Teobaldo  gave 
it  me  as  a gift.  He  has  given  me  many  things 
beside ! ” 

I looked  at  the  picture  for  some  time  and  admired 
it  vastly.  Turning  back  to  Theobald,  I assured  him 
that  if  it  were  hung  among  the  drawings  in  the  Uffizi 
and  labelled  with  a glorious  name,  it  would  hold  its 
My  praise  seemed  to  give  him  extreme  pleas- 
ure ; he  pressed  my  hands,  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  It  moved  him  apparently  with  the  desire  to 
expatiate  on  the  history  of  the  drawing,  for  he  rose 
and  made  his  adieux  to  our  companion,  kissing  her 
hand  with  the  same  mild  ardor  as  before.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  the  offer  of  a similar  piece  of  gal- 
lantry on  my  own  part  might  help  me  to  know  what 
manner  of  woman  she  was.  When  she  perceived 
my  intention,  she  withdrew  her  hand,  dropped  her 
eyes  solemnly,  and  made  me  a severe  courtesy.  The- 
obald took  my  ^rm  and  led  me  rapidly  into  the 
street. 

“ And  what  do  you  think  of  the  divine  Serafina  ? ” 
he  cried  with  fervor. 

“ It ’s  certainly  good  solid  beauty ! ” I answered. 

He  eyed  me  an  instant  askance,  and  then  seemed 
hurried  along  by  the  current  of  remembrance.  “You 


(\ 


300 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


should  have  seen  the  mother  and  the  child  together, 
seen  them  as  I first  saw  them,  — the  mother  with 
her  head  draped  in  a shawl,  a divine  trouble  in  her 
face,  and  the  bambino  pressed  to  her  bosom.  You 
would  have  said,  I think,  that  Raphael  had  found 
his  match  in  common  chance.  I was  coming  in,  one 
summer  night,  from  a long  walk  in  the  country,  when 
I met  this  apparition  at  the  city  gate.  The  woman 
held  out  her  hand.  I hardly  knew  whether  to  say, 
‘What  do  you  want?’  or  to  fall  down  and  worship. 
She  asked  for  a little  money.  I saw  that  she  was 
beautiful  and  pale.  She  might  have  stepped  out  of 
the  stable  of  Bethlehem ! I gave  her  money  and 
helped  her  on  her  way  into  the  town.  I had  guessed 
her  story.  She,  too,  was  a maiden  mother,  and  she 
had  been  turned  out  into  the  world  in  her  shame. 
I felt  in  all  my  pulses  that  here  was  my  subject 
mavellously  realized.  I felt  like  one  of  the  old  con- 
vent artists  who  had  had  a vision.  I rescued  the 
poor  creatures,  cherished  them,  watched  them  as  I 
would  have  done  some  precious  work  of  art,  some 
lovely  fragment  of  fresco  discovered  in  a mouldering 
cloister.  In  a month  — as  if  to  deepen  and  conse- 
crate the  pathos  of  it  all  — the  poor  little  child  died. 
When  she  felt  that  he  was  going,  she  held  him  up 
to  me  for  ten  minutes,  and  I made  that  sketch.  You 
saw  a feverish  haste  in  it,  I suppose;  I wanted  to 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


301 


spare  the  poor  little  mortal  the  pain  of  his  position. 
After  that,  I doubly  valued  the  mother.  She  is  the 
simplest,  sweetest,  most  natural  creature  that  ever 
bloomed  in  this  brave  old  land  of  Italy.  She  lives 
in  the  memory  of  her  child,  in  her  gratitude  for  the 
scanty  kindness  I have  been  able  to  show  her,  and 
in  her  pimple  religion ! She ’s  not  even  conscious  of 
her  beauty;  my  admiration  has  never  made  her  vain. 
Heaven  knows  I Ve  made  no  secret  of  it.  You  must 
have  observed  the  singular  transparency  of  her  ex- 
pression, the  lovely  modesty  of  her  glance.  And  was 
there  ever  such  a truly  virginal  brow,  such  a natural 
classic  elegance  in  the  wave  of  the  hair  and  the  arch 
of  the  forehead  ? I ’ve  studied  her ; I may  say  I 
know  her.  I Ve  absorbed  her  little  by  little ; my 
mind  is  stamped  and  imbued,  and  I have  determined 
now  to  clinch  the  impression;  I shall  at  last  invite 
her  to  sit  for  me ! ” 

" ‘ At  last,  — at  last 9 ? ” I repeated,  in  much  amaze- 
ment. “Do  you  mean  that  she  has  never  done  so 
yet?" 

“ I Ve  not  really  had  — a — a sitting,"  said  Theo- 
bald, speaking  very  slowly.  “ I Ve  taken  notes,  you 
know ; I Ve  got  my  grand  fundamental  impression. 
That ’s  the  great  thing ! But  I Ve  not  actually  had 
her  as  a model,  posed  and  draped  and  lighted,  before 
my  easel." 


302 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


What  had  become  for  the  moment  of  my  perception 
and  my  tact  I am  at  a loss  to  say;  in  their  absence, 
I was  unable  to  repress  headlong  exclamation.  I was 
destined  to  regret  it.  We  had  stopped  at  a turning, 
beneath  a lamp.  “ My  poor^JHand,”  I exclaimed,  lay- 
ing my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  “ you ’ve  dawdled ! 
She’s  an  old,  old  woman  — for  a Madonna!- 

It  was  as  if  I had  brutally  struck  him ; I shall  never 
forget  the  long,  slow,  almost  ghastly  look  of  pain  with 
which  he  answered  me.  “ Dawdled  — old,  old  ! ” he 
stammered.  “Are.  you  joking?” 

“Why,  my  dear  fellow,  I suppose  you  don’t  take 
the  woman  for  twenty  ? ” 

He  drew  a long  breath  and  leaned  against  a house, 
looking  at  me  with  questioning,  protesting,  reproachful 
eyes.  At  last,  starting  forward,  and  grasping  my  'arm  : 
“Answer  me  solemnly:  does  she  seem  to  you  truly 
old  ? Is  she  wrinkled,  is  she  faded,  am  I blind  ? ” 
Then  at  last  I understood  the  immensity  of  his 
illusion ; how,  one  by  one,  the  noiseless  years  had 
ebbed  away,  and  left  him  brooding  in  charmed  inac- 
tion, forever  preparing  for  a work  forever  deferred. 
It  seemed  to  me  almost  a kindness  now  to  tell  him 
the  plain  truth.  “ I should  be  sorry  to  say  you  ’re 
blind,”  I answered,  “ but  I think  you  ’re  deceived. 
You’ve  lost  time  in  effortless  contemplation.  Your 
friend  was  once  young  and  fresh  and  virginal;  but,  I 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


303 


protest,  that  was  some  years  ago.  Still,  she  has  de 
beaux  restes  ? By  all  means  make  her  sit  for  you ! ” I 
broke  down ; his  face  was  too  horribly  reproachful. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  passing  his  hand- 
kerchief mechanically  over  his  forehead.  “ JDe  beaux 
restes  ? I thank  you  for  sparing  me  the  plain  English. 
I must  make  up  my  Madonna  out  of  de  beaux  restes  ! 
What  a masterpiece  she  ’ll  be ! Old  — old ! Old  — 
old  ! ” he  murmured. 

“ Never  mind  her  age,”  I cried,  revolted- at  what  I 
had  done,  “ never  mind  my  impression  of  her ! You 
have  your  memory,  your  notes,  your  genius.  Finish 
your  picture  in  a month.  I proclaim  it  beforehand  a 
masterpiece,  and  I hereby  offer  you  for  it  any  sum  you 
may  choose  to  ask.” 

He  stared,  but  he  seemed  scarcely  to  understand  me. 
“ Old  — old  ! ” he  kept  stupidly  repeating.  “ If  she  is 
old,  what  am  I ? If  her  beauty,  has  faded,  where  — 
where  is  my  strength  ? Has  life  been  a dream  Have 
I worshipped  too  long,  — have  I loved  too  well  ? ” 
The  charm,  in  truth,  was  broken.  That  the  chord  of 
illusion  should  have  snapped  at  my  light,  accidental 
touch  showed  how  it  had  been  weakened  by  excessive 
tension.  The  poor  fellow’s  sense  of  wasted  time,  of 
vanished  opportunity,  seemed  to  roll  in  upon  his  soul 
in  waves  of  darkness.  He  suddenly  dropped  his  head 
and  burst  into  tears. 


304 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


I led  him  homeward  with  all  possible  tenderness, 
but  I attempted  neither  to  check  his  grief,  to  restore 
his  equanimity,  nor  to  unsay  the  hard  truth.  When 
we  reached  my  hotel  I tried  to  induce  him  to  come  in. 
“ We  ’ll  drink  a glass  of  wine,”  I said,  smiling,  “ to  the 
completion  of  the  Madonna.” 

With  a violent  effort  he  held  up  his  head,  mused  for 
a moment  with  a formidably  sombre  frown,  and  then 
giving  me  his  hand,  “ I ’ll  finish  it,”  he  cried,  “ in  a 
month ! No,  in  a fortnight ! After  all,  I have  it 
here ! ” And  he  tapped  his  forehead.  “ Of  course 
she ’s  old  ! She  can  afford  to  have  it  said  of  her,  — a 
woman  who  has  made  twenty  years  pass  like  a twelve- 
month  ! Old  — old  ! Why,  sir,  she  shall  be  eternal ! ” 

I wished  to  see  him  safely  to  his  own  door,  but  he 
waved  me  back  and  walked  away  with  an  air  of  reso- 
lution, ' whistling  and  swinging  his  cane.  I waited  a 
moment,  and  then  followed  him  at  a distance,  and  saw 
him  proceed  to  cross  the  Santa  Trinita  Bridge.  When 
he  reached  the  middle,  he  suddenly  paused,  as  if  his 
strength  had  deserted  him,  and  leaned  upon  the  para- 
pet gazing  over  into  the  river.  I was  careful  to  keep 
him  in  sight ; I confess  that  I passed  ten  very  nervous 
minutes.  He  recovered  himself  at  last,  and  went  his 
way,  slowly  and  with  hanging  head. 

That  I should  have  really  startled  poor  Theobald  into 
a bolder  use  of  his  long-garnered  stores  of  knowledge 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


305 


and  taste,  into  the  vulgar  effort  and  hazard  of  produc- 
tion, seemed  at  first  reason  enough  for  his  continued 
silence,  and  absence ; but  as  day  followed  day  without 
his  either  calling  or  sending  me  a line,  and  without  my 
meeting  him  in  his  customary  haunts,  in  the  galleries, 
in  the  chapel  at  San  Lorenzo,  or  strolling  between  the 
Arno-side  and  the  great  hedge-screen  of  verdure  which, 
along  the  drive  of  the  Cascine,  throws  the  fair  occu- 
pants of  barouche  and  phaeton  into  such  becoming 
relief,  — as  for  more  than  a week  I got  neither  tidings 
nor  sight  of  him,  I began  to  fear  that  I had  fatally 
offended  him,  and  that,  instead  of  giving  wholesome 
impetus  to  his  talent,  I had  brutally  paralyzed  it.  I 
had  a wretched  suspicion  that  I had  made  him  ill.  My 
stay  at  Florence  was  drawing  to  a close,  and  it  was 
important  that,  before  resuming  my  journey,  I should 
assure  myself  of  the  truth.  Theobald,  to  the  last,  had 
kept  his  lodging  a mystery,  and  I was  altogether  at 
a loss  where  to  look  for  him.  The  simplest  course 
was  to  make  inquiry  of  the  beauty  of  the  Mercato 
Yecchio,  and  I confess  that  unsatisfied  curiosity  as  to 
the  lady  herself  counselled  it  as  well.  Perhaps  I had 
done  her  injustice,  and  she  was  as  immortally  fresh 
and  fair  as  he  conceived  her.  I was,  at  any  rate,  anx- 
ious to  behold  once  more  the  ripe  enchantress  who 
had  made  twenty  years  pass  as  a twelvemonth.  I re- 
paired accordingly,  one  moning,  to  her  abode,  climbed 


306 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


the  interminable  staircase,  and  reached  her  door.  It 
stood  ajar,  and  as  I hesitated  whether  to  enter,  a little 
serving-maid  came  clattering  out  with  an  empty  kettle, 
as  if  she  had  just  performed  some  savory  errand.  The 
inner  door,  too,  was  open ; so  I crossed  the  little  vesti- 
bule and  entered  the  room  in  which  I had  formerly 
been  received.  It  had  not  its  evening  aspect.  The 
table,  or  one  end  of  it,  was  spread  for  a late  breakfast, 
and  before  it  sat  a gentleman,  — an  individual,  at  least, 
of  the  male  sex,  — dealing  justice  upon  a beefsteak 
and  onions,  and  a bottle  of  wine.  At  his  elbow,  in 
friendly  proximity,  was  placed  the  lady  of  the  house. 
Her  attitude,  as  I entered,  was  not  that  of  an  enchant- 
ress. With  one  hand  she  held  in  her  lap  a plate  of 
smoking  maccaroni ; with  the  other  she  had  lifted  high 
in  air  one  of  the  pendulous  filaments  of  this  succulent 
compound,  and  was  in  the  act  of  slipping  it  gently 
down  her  throat.  On  the  uncovered  end  of  the  table, 
facing  her  companion,  were  ranged  half  a dozen  small 
statuettes,  of  some  snuff-colored  substance  resembling 

O 

terra-cotta.  He,  brandishing  his  knife  with  ardor,  was 
apparently  descanting  on  their  merits. 

Evidently  I darkened  the  door.  My  hostess  dropped 
her  maccaroni  — into  her  mouth,  and  rose  hastily  with 
a harsh  exclamation  and  a flushed  face.  I immedi- 
ately perceived  that  the  Signora  Serafina’s  secret  was 
even  better  worth  knowing  than  I had  supposed,  and 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


307 


that  the  way  to  learn  it  was  to  take  it  for  granted. 
I summoned  my  best  Italian,  I smiled  and  bowed 
and  apologized  for  my  intrusion;  and  in  a moment, 
whether  or  no  I had  dispelled  the  lady's  irritation,  I 
had,  at  least,  stimulated  her  prudence.  I was  wel- 
come, she  said  ; I must  take  a seat.  This  was  another 
friend  of  hers,  — also  an  artist,  she  declared  with  a 
smile  which  was  almost  amiable.  Her  companion 
wiped  his  mustache  and  bowed  with  great  civility. 
I saw  at  a glance  that  he  was  equal  to  the  situation. 
He  was  presumably  the  author  of  the  statuettes  on 
the  table,  and  he  knew  a money-spending  forestiere 
when  he  saw  one.  He  was  a small,  wiry  man,  with 
a clever,  impudent,  tossed-up  nose,  a sharp  little  black 
eye,  and  waxed  ends  to  his  mustache.  On  the  side 
of  his  head  he  wore  jauntily  a little  crimson  velvet 
smoking-cap,  and  I observed  that  his  feet  were  en- 
cased in  brilliant  slippers.  On  Serafina’s  remarking 
with  dignity  that  I was  the  friend  of  Mr.  Theobald, 
he  broke  out  into  that  fantastic  French  of  which 
Italians  are  so  insistently  lavish,  and  declared  with 
fervor  that  Mr.  Theobald  was  a magnificent  genius. 

“ I ’m  sure  I don’t  know,”  I answered  with  a shrug. 
“ If  you  ’re  in  a position  to  affirm  it,  you  have  the 
advantage  of  me.  I ’ve  seen  nothing  from  his  hand 
but  the  bambino  yonder,  which  certainly  is  fine.” 

He  declared  that  the  bambino  was  a masterpiece,  a 


308 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


pure  Correggio.  It  was  only  a pity,  he  added  with  a 
knowing  laugh,  that  the  sketch  had  not  been  made  on 
some  good  bit  of  honeycombed  old  panel.  The  stately 
Serafina  hereupon  protested  that  Mr.  Theobald  was 
the  soul  of  honor,  and  that  he  would  never  lend  him- 
self to  a deceit.  “ I ’m  not  a judge  of  genius,”  she  said, 
“ and  I know  nothing  of  pictures.  I ’m  but  a poor 
simple  widow  ; but  I know  that  the  Signor  Teobaldo 
has  the  heart  of  an  angel  and  the  virtue  of  a saint. 
He ’s  my  benefactor,”  she  added  sententiously.  The 
after-glow  of  the  somewhat  sinister  flush  with  which 
she  had  greeted  me  still  lingered  in  her  cheek,  and 
perhaps  did  not  favor  her  beauty ; I could  not  but 
fancy  it  a wise  custom  of  Theobald’s  to  visit  her  only 
by  candlelight.  She  was  coarse,  and  her  poor  adorer 
was  a poet. 

“ I have  the  greatest  esteem  for  him,”  I said  ; “ it  is 
for  this  reason  that  I have  been  uneasy  at  not  seeing 
him  for  ten  days.  Have  you  seen  him  ? Is  he  per- 
haps ill?” 

“ 111 ! Heaven  forbid  ! ” cried  Serafina,  with  genu- 
ine vehemence. 

Her  companion  uttered  a rapid  expletive,  and  re- 
proached her  with  not  having  been  to  see  him.  She 
hesitated  a moment ; then  she  simpered  the  least  bit 
and  bridled.  “ He  comes  to  see  me  — without  re- 
proach ! But  it  would  not  be  the  same  for  me  to  go 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


309 


to  him,  though,  indeed,  you  may  almost  call  him  a man 
of  holy  life.” 

“He  has  the  greatest  admiration  for  you,”  I said. 
“ He  would  have  been  honored  by  your  visit.” 

She  looked  at  me  a moment  sharply.  “ More  admi- 
ration than  you.  Admit  that ! ” Of  course  I pro- 
tested with  all  the  eloquence  at  my  command,  and 
my  mysterious  hostess  then  confessed  that  she  had 
taken  no  fancy  to  me  on  my  former  visit,  and  that, 
Theobald  not  having  returned,  she  believed  I had  poi- 
soned his  mind  against  her.  “ It  would  be  no  kind- 
ness to  the  poor  gentleman,  I can  tell  you  that,”  she 
said.  “He  has  come  to  see  me  every  evening  for 
years.  It ’s  a long  friendship  ! No  one  knows  him  as 
well  as  I.” 

“I  don't  pretend  to  know  him,  or  to  understand 
him,”  I said.  “ He ’s  a mystery ! Nevertheless,  he 
seems  to  me  a little  — ” And  I touched  my  forehead 
and  waved  my  hand  in  the  air. 

Serafina  glanced  at  her  companion  a moment,  as  if 
for  inspiration.  He  contented  himself  with  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  as  he  filled  his  glass  again.  The  padrona 
hereupon  gave  me  a more  softly  insinuating  smile  than 
would  have  seemed  likely  to  bloom  on  so  candid  a 
brow.  “ It ’s  for  that  that  I love  him  ! ” she  said. 
“ The  world  has  so  little  kindness  for  such  persons.  It 
laughs  at  them,  and  despises  them,  and  cheats  them. 


310 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


He  is  too  good  for  this  wicked  life  ! It ’s  his  fancy 
that  he  finds  a little  Paradise  up  here  in  my  poor 
apartment.  If  he  thinks  so,  how  can  I help  it  ? lie 
has  a strange  belief  — really,  I ought  to  be  ashamed  to 
tell  you  — that  I resemble  the  Blessed  Virgin  : Heaven 
forgive  me  ! I let  him  think  what  he  pleases,  so  long 
as  it  makes  him  happy.  He  was  very  kind  to  me 
once,  and  I am  not  one  that  forgets  a favor.  So  I 
receive  him  every  evening  civilly,  and  ask  after  his 
health,  and  let  him  look  at  me  on  this  side  and  that ! 
For  that  matter,  I may  say  it  without  vanity,  X_was 
worth  looking  at  once  ! And  he ’s  not  always  amusing, 
poor  man ! He  sits  sometimes  for  an  hour  without 
speaking  a word,  or  else  he  talks  away,  without  stop- 
ping, on  art  and  nature,  and  beauty  and  duty,  and  fifty 
fine  things  that  are  all  so  much  Latin  to  me.  I beg 
you  to  understand  that  he  has  never  said  a word  to  me 
that  I might  n’t  decently  listen  to.  He  may  be  a little 
cracked,  but  he ’s  one  of  the  saints.” 

“ Eh  ! ” cried  the  man,  “ the  saints  wTere  all  a little 
cracked  ! ” 

Serafina,  I fancied,  left  part  of  her  story  untold  ; but 
she  told  enough  of  it  to  make  poor  Theobald’s  own 
statement  seem  intensely  pathetic  in  its  exalted  sim- 
plicity. “ It ’s  a strange  fortune,  certainly,”  she  went 
on,  “ todiave  such  a friend  as  this  dear  man,  — a friend 
who ’s  less  than  a lover  and  more  than  a friend.”  I 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


311 


glanced  at  her  companion,  who  preserved  an  impene- 
trable smile,  twisted  the  end  of  his  mustache,  and  dis- 
posed of  a copious  mouthful.  Was  he  less  than  a 
lover  ? “ But  what  will  you  have  ? ” Serafina  pursued. 

“ In  this  hard  world  one  must  n’t  ask  too  many  ques- 
tions ; one  must  take  what  comes  and  keep  what  one 
| gets.  I ’ve  kept  my  good  friend  for  twenty  years,  and 
I do  hope  that,  at  this  time  of  day,  Signore,  you ’ve  not 
come  to  turn  him  against  me  ! ” 

I assured  her  that  I had  no  such  design,  and  that  I 
should  vastly  regret  disturbing  Mr.  Theobald’s  habits 
or  convictions.  On  the  contrary,  I was  alarmed  about 
him,  and  I should  immediately  go  in  search  of  him. 
She  gave  me  his  address  and  a florid  account  of  her 
sufferings  at  his  non-appearance.  She  had  not  been 
to  him,  for  various  reasons ; chiefly  because  she  was 
afraid  of  displeasing  him,  as  he  had  always  made  such 
a mystery  of  his  home.  “ You  might  have  sent  this 
gentleman  ! ” I ventured  to  suggest. 

“ Ah,”  cried  the  gentleman,  “ he  admires  the  Signora 
Serafina,  but  he  would  n’t  admire  me.”  And  then, 
confidentially,  with  his  finger  on  his  nose,  “ He ’s  a 
purist ! ” 

I was  about  to  withdraw,  on  the  promise  that  I 
would  inform  the  Signora  Serafina  of  my  friend’s  con- 
' dition,  when  her  companion,  who  had  risen  from  table 
and  girded  his  loins  apparently  for  the  onset,  grasped 


312 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


me  gently  by  the  arm,  and  led  me  before  the  row  of 
statuettes.  “ I perceive  by  your  conversation,  signore, 
that  you  are  a patron  of  the  arts.  Allow  me  to  request 
your  honorable  attention  for  these  modest  products 
of  my  own  ingenuity.  They  are  brand-new,  fresh  from 
my  atelier,  and  have  never  been  exhibited  in  public. 
I have  brought  them  here  to  receive  the  verdict  of 
this  dear  lady,  who  is  a good  critic,  for  all  she  may 
pretend  to  the  contrary.  I am  the  inventor  of  this 
peculiar  style  of  statuette,  — of  subject,  manner,  mate- 
rial, everything.  Touch  them,  I pray  you  ; handle 
them ; you  need  n’t  fear.  Delicate  as  they  look,  it  is 
impossible  they  should  break ! My  various  creations 
have  met  with  great  success.  They  are  especially 
admired  by  Americans.  I have  sent  them  all  over 
Europe,  — to  London,  Paris,  Vienna!  You  may  have 
observed  some  little  specimens  in  Paris,  on  the  Boule- 
vard, in  a shop  of  which  they  constitute  the  specialty. 
There  is  always  a crowd  about  the  window.  They 
form  a very  pleasing  ornament  for  the  mantel-shelf 
of  a gay  young  bachelor,  for  the  boudoir  of  a pretty 
woman.  You  could  n’t  make  a prettier  present  to  a 
person  with  whom  you  wished  to  exchange  a harmless 
joke.  It„ is  not  classic  art,  signore,  of  course;  but, 
between  ourselves,  is  n’t  classic  art  sometimes  rather 
a bore  ? Caricature,  burlesque,  la  charge,  as  the  French 
say,  lias  hitherto  been  confined  to  paper,  to  the  pen  and 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


313 


pencil.  Now,  it  has  been  my  inspiration  to  introduce 
it  into  statuary.  For  this  purpose  I have  invented  a 
peculiar  plastic  compound  which  you  will  permit  me 
not  to  divulge.  That ’s  my  secret,  signore ! It ’s  as 
light,  you  perceive,  as  cork,  and  yet  as  firm  as  alabas- 
ter! I frankly  confess  that  I really  pride  myself  as 
much  on  this  little  stroke  of  chemical  ingenuity  as 
upon  the  other  element  of  novelty  in  my  creations,  — 
my  types.  What  do  you  say  to  my  types,  signore? 
The  idea  is  bold ; does  it  strike  you  as  happy  ? Cats 
and  monkeys,  — monkeys  and  cats,  — all  human  life 
is  there  ! Human  life,  of  course,  I mean,  viewed  with 
the  eye  of  the  satirist!  To  combine  sculpture  and 
satire,  signore,  has  been  my  unprecedented  ambition. 
I flatter  myself  that  I have  not  egregiously  failed.” 

As  this  jaunty  Juvenal  of  the  chimney-piece  de- 
livered himself  of  his  persuasive  allocution,  he  took 
up  his  little  groups  successively  from  the  table,  held 
them  aloft,  turned  them  about,  rapped  them  with 
his  knuckles,  and  gazed  at  them  lovingly  with  his 
head  on  one  side.  They  consisted  each  of  a cat- 
and  a monkey,  fantastically  draped,  in  some  prepos- 
terously sentimental  conjunction.  They  exhibited  a 
certain  sameness  of  motive,  and  illustrated  chiefly 
the  different  phases  of  what,  in  delicate  terms,  may 
be  called  gallantry  and  coquetry  ; but  they  were 
strikingly  clever  and  expressive,  and  were  at  once 
14 


314 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


very  perfect  cats  and  monkeys  and  very  natural  men 
and  women.  I confess,  however,  that  they  failed  to 
amuse  me.  I was  doubtless  not  in  a mood  to  enjoy 
them,  for  they  seemed  to  me  peculiarly  cynical  and 
vulgar.  Their  imitative  felicity  was  revolting.  As  1 
looked  askance  at  the  complacent  little  artist,  brandish- 
ing them  between  finger  and  thumb,  and  caressing  them 
with  an  amorous  eye,  he  seemed  to  me  himself  little 
more  than  an  exceptionally  intelligent  ape.  I mus- 
tered an  admiring  grin,  however,  and  he  blew  an- 
other blast.  “ My  figures  are  studied  from  life ! I 
have  a little  menagerie  of  monkeys  whose  frolics 
I contemplate  by  the  hour.  As  for  the  cats,  one  has 
only  to  look  out  of  one’s  back  window  ! Since  I 
have  begun  to  examine  these  expressive  little  brutes, 

• I have  made  many  profound  observations.  Speaking, 
signore,  to  a man  of  imagination,  I may  say  that  my 
little  designs  are  not  without  a philosophy  of  their 
own.  Truly,  I don’t  know  whether  the  cats  and 
monkeys  imitate  us,  or  whether  it ’s  we  who  imitate 
them.”  I congratulated  him  on  his  philosophy,  and 
lie  resumed : “ You  will  do  me  the  honor  to  admit 
that  I have  handled  my  subjects  with  delicacy.  Eh, 
it  was  needed,  signore  ! I have  been  free,  but  not 
too  free  — eh  ? Just  a hint,  you  know  ! You  may  see 
as  much  or  as  little  as  you  please.  These  little 
groups,  however,  are  no  measure  of  my  invention. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


315 


If  you  will  favor  me  with  a call  at  my  studio,  I 
think  that  you  will  admit  that  my  combinations  are 
really  infinite.  I likewise  execute  figures  to  com- 
mand. You  have  perhaps  some  little  motive,  — the 
fruit  . of  your  philosophy  of  life,  signore,  — which 
you  would  like  to  have  interpreted.  I can  promise 
to  work  it  up  to  your  satisfaction;  it  shall  be  as 
malicious  as  you  please ! Allow  me  to  present  you 
with  my  card,  and  to  remind  you  that  my  prices 
are  moderate.  Only  sixty  francs  for  a little  group  like 
that.  My  statuettes  are  as  durable  as  bronze,  — wre, 
joerennius , signore,  — and,  between  ourselves,  I think 
they  are  more  amusing  ! ” 

As  I pocketed  his  card,  I glanced  at  Madonna 
Serafina,  wondering  whether  she  had  an  eye  for  con- 
trasts. She  had  picked  up  one  of  the  little  couples 
and  was  tenderly  dusting  it  with  a feather  broom. 

What  I had  just  seen  and  heard  had  so  deepened 
my  compassionate  interest  in  my  deluded  friend,  that 
I took  a summary  leave,  and  made  my  way  directly  to 
the  house  designated  by  this  remarkable  woman.  It 
was  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  opposite  side  of  the 
town,  and  presented  a sombre  and  squalid  appearance. 
An  old  woman  in  the  doorway,  on  my  inquiring  for 
Theobald,  ushered  me  in  with  a mumbled  blessing  and 
an  expression  of  relief  at  the  poor  gentleman  having  a 
friend.  His  lodging  seemed  to  consist  of  a single  room 


316 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


at  the  top  of  the  house.  On  getting  no  answer  to  my 
knock,  I opened  the  door,  supposing  that  he  was  ab- 
sent ; so  that  it  gave  me  a certain  shock  to  find  him 
sitting  there  helpless  and  dumb.  He  was  seated  near 
the  single  window,  facing  an  easel  which  supported  a 
large  canvas.  On  my  entering,  he  looked  up  at  me 
blankly,  without  changing  his  position,  which  was  that 
of  absolute  lassitude  and  dejection,  his  arms  loosely 
folded,  his  legs  stretched  before  him,  his  head  hanging 
on  his  breast.  Advancing  into  the  room,  I perceived 
that  his  face  vividly  corresponded  with  his  attitude. 
He  was  pale,  haggard,  and  unshaven,  and  his  dull  and 
sunken  eye  gazed  at  me  without  a spark  of  recognition. 
I had  been  afraid  that  he  would  greet  me  with  fierce 
reproaches,  as  the  cruelly  officious  patron  who  had 
turned  his  peace  to  bitterness,  and  I was  relieved  to 
find  that  my  appearance  awakened  no  visible  resent- 
ment. “ Don’t  you  know  me  ? ” I asked,  as  I put  out 
my  hand.  “ Have  you  already  forgotten  me  ? ” 

He  made  no  response,  kept  his  position  stupidly, 
and  left  me  staring  about  the  room.  It  spoke  most 
plaintively  for  itself.  Shabby,  sordid,  naked,  it  con- 
tained, beyond  the  wretched  bed,  but  the  scantiest 
provision  for  personal  comfort.  It  was  bedroom  at 
once  and  studio,  — a grim  ghost  of  a studio.  A few 
dusty  casts  and  prints  on  the  walls,  three  or  four  old 
canvases  turned  face  inward,  and  a rusty-looking  color- 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


317 


box  formed,  with  the  easel  at  the  window,  the  sum  of 
its  appurtenances.  The  place  savored  horribly  of  pov- 
erty. Its  only  wealth  was  the  picture  on  the  easel, 
presumably  the  famous  Madonna.  Averted  as  this 

% 

was  from  the  door,  I was  unable  to  see  its  face ; but 
at  last,  sickened  by  the  vacant  misery  of  the  spot,  I 
passed  behind  Theobald,  eagerly  and  tenderly.  I can 
hardly  say  that  I was  surprised  at  what  I found,  — a 
canvas  that  was  a mere  dead  blank,  cracked  and  discol- 
ored by  time.  This  was  his  immortal  work  ! Though 
not  surprised,  I confess  I was  powerfully  moved,  and  I 
think  that  for  five  minutes  I could  not  have  trusted 
myself  to  speak.  At  last,  my  silent  nearness  affected 
him ; he  stirred  and  turned,  and  then  rose  and  looked 
at  me  with  a slowly  kindling  eye.  I murmured  some 
kind,  ineffective  nothings  about  his  being  ill  and  need- 
ing advice  and  care,  but  he  seemed  absorbed  in  the 
effort  to  recall  distinctly  what  had  last  passed  between 
us.  “ You  were  right,”  he  said  with  a pitiful  smile, 

“ I ’m  a dawdler  ! I ’m  a failure  ! I shall  do  nothing 
more  in  this  world.  You  opened  my  eyes  ; and,  though 
the  truth  is  bitter,  I bear  you  no  grudge.  Amen ! I Ve 
been  sitting  here  for  a week,  face  to  face  with  the  truth, 
with  the  past,  with  my  weakness  and  poverty  and 
nullity.  I shall  never  touch  a brush  ! I believe  I Ve 
neither  eaten  nor  slept.  Look  at  that  canvas!”  he 
went  on,  as  I relieved  my  emotion  in  the  urgent 


318 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


request  that  he  would  come  home  with  me  and  dine. 
“ That  was  to  have  contained  my  masterpiece  ! Is  n’t 
it  a promising  foundation  ? The  elements  of  it  are  all 
here.”  And  he  tapped  his  forehead  with  that  mystic 
confidence  which  had  marked  the  gesture  before. 
" If  I could  only  transpose  them  into  some  brain 
that  had  the  hand,  the  will ! Since  I ’ve  been  sit- 
ting here  taking  stock  of  my  intellects,  I ’ve  come 
to  believe  that  I have  the  material  for  a hundred 
masterpieces.  But  my  hand  is  paralyzed  now,  and 
they  ’ll  never  be  painted.  I never  began  ! I waited 
and  waited  to  be  worthier  to  begin,  and  wasted  my 
life  in  preparation.  While  I fancied  my  creation  was 
growing,  it  was  dying.  I ’ve  taken  it  all  too  hard  ! 
Michael  Angelo  did  n’t  when  he  went  at  the  Lorenzo  ! 
He  did  his  best  at  a venture,  and  his  venture  is  im- 
mortal. That ’s  mine  ! ” And  he  pointed  with  a ges- 
ture I shall  never  forget  at  the  empty  canvas.  “ I sup- 
pose we  ’re  a genus  by  ourselves  in  the  providential 
scheme,  — we  talents  that  can’t  act,  that  can’t  do  nor 
dare  ! We  take  it  out  in  talk,  in  plans  and  promises, 
in  study,  in  visions  ! But  our  visions,  let  me  tell  you,” 
he  cried,  with  a toss  of  his  head,  “ have  a way  of 
being  brilliant,  and  a man  has  n’t  lived  in  vain  who 
has  seen  the  things  I have  ! Of  course  you  ’ll  not 
believe  in  them  when  that  bit  of  worm-eaten  cloth 
is  all  I have  to  show  for  them ; but  to  convince 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


319 


you,  to  enchant  and  astound  the  world,  I need  only 
the  hand  of  Raphael.  I have  his  brain.  A pity, 
you  ’ll  say,  I have  n’t  his  modesty  ! Ah,  let  me  bab- 
ble now ; it ’s  all  I have  left ! I hn  the  half  of  a 
genius  ! Where  in  the  wide  world  is  my  other  half? 
Lodged  perhaps  ill  the  vulgar  soul,  the  cunning,  ready 
fingers  of  some  dull  copyist  or  some  trivial  artisan 
who  turns  out  by  the  dozen  his  easy  prodigies  of 
touch ! But  it ’s  not  for  me  to  sneer  at  him ; he 
at  least  does  something.  He ’s  not  a dawdler  ! Well 
for  me  if  I had  been  vulgar  and  clever  and  reck- 
less, if  I could  have  shut  my  eyes  and  dealt  my 
stroke ! ” 

What  to  say  to  the  poor  fellow,  what  to  do  for 
him,  seemed  hard  to  determine ; I chiefly  felt  that 
I must  break  the  spell  of  his  present  inaction,  and 
remove  him  from  the  haunted  atmosphere  of  the 
little  room  it  seemed  such  cruel  irony  to  call  a stu- 
dio. I cannot  say  I persuaded  him  to  come  out 
with  me ; he  simply  suffered  himself  to  be  led,  and 
when  we  began  to  walk  in  the  open  air  I was  able 
to  measure  his  pitifully  weakened  condition.  Never- 
theless, he  seemed  in  a certain  way  to  revive,  and 
murmured  at  last  that  he  would  like  to  go  to  the 
Pitti  Gallery.  I shall  never  forget  our  melancholy 
stroll  through  those  gorgeous  halls,  every  picture  on 
whose  walls  seemed,  even  to  my  own  sympathetic 


320 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


vision,  to  glow  with  a sort  of  insolent  renewal  of 
strength  and  lustre.  The  eyes  and  lips  of  the  great 
portraits  seemed  to  smile  in  ineffable  scorn  of  the 
dejected  pretender  who  had  dreamed  of  competing 
with  their  triumphant  authors  ; the  celestial  candor, 
even,  of  the  Madonna  in  the  Chair,  as  we  paused 
in  perfect  silence  before  her,  was  tinged  with  the 
sinister  irony  of  the  women  of  Leonardo.  Perfect 
silence  indeed  marked  our  whole  progress,  — the 
silence  of  a deep  farewell ; for  I felt  in  all  my 
pulses,  as  Theobald,  leaning  on  my  arm,  dragged  one 
heavy  foot  after  the  other,  that  he  was  looking  his 
last.  When  we  came  out,  he  was  so  exhausted 
that,  instead  of  taking  him  to  my  hotel  to  dine,  I 
called*  a carriage  and  drove  him  straight  to  his  own 
poor  lodging.  He  had  sunk  into  an  extraordinary 
lethargy ; he  lay  back  in  the  carriage,  with  his  eyes 
closed,  as  pale  as  death,  his  faint  breathing  inter- 
rupted at  intervals  by  a sudden  gasp,  like  a smothered 
sob  or  a vain  attempt  to  speak.  With  the  help  of 
the  old  woman  who  had  admitted  me  before,  and 
who  emerged  from  a dark  back  court,  I contrived  to 
lead  him  up  the  long  steep  staircase  and  lay  him  on 
his  wretched  bed.  To  her  I gave  him  in  charge, 
while  I prepared  in  all  haste  to  seek  a physician. 
But  she  followed  me  out  of  the  room  with  a pitiful 
clasping  of  her  hands. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


321 


" Poor,  dear,  blessed  gentleman,”  she  murmured ; 
"is  he  dying?” 

" Possibly.  How  long  has  he  been  thus  ? ” 

" Since  a night  he  passed  ten  days  ago.  I came 
up  in  the  morning  to  make  his  poor  bed,  and  found 
him  sitting  up  in  his  clothes  before  that  great  can- 
vas he  keeps  there.  Poor,  dear,  strange  man,  he 
says  his  prayers  to  it!  He  had  not  been  to  bed, 
nor  since  then  properly!  What  has  happened  to 
him  ? Has  he  found  out  about  the  Serafina  ? ” she 
whispered  with  a glittering  eye  and  a toothless  grin. 

"Prove  at  least  that  one  old  woman  can  be  faith- 
ful,” I said,  "and  watch  him  well  till  I come  back.” 
My  return  was  delayed,  through  the  absence  of  the 
English  physician  on  a round  of  visits,  and  my  vainly 
pursuing  him  from  house  to  house  before  I overtook 
him.  I brought  him  to  Theobald’s  bedside  none  too 
soon.  A violent  fever  had  seized  our  patient,  and 
the  case  was  evidently  grave.  A couple  of  hours 
later  I knew  that  he  had  brain-fever.  From  this 
moment  I was  with  him  constantly,  but  I am  far 
from  wishing  to  describe  his  illness.  Excessively 
painful  to  witness,  it  was  happily  brief.  JLtfe  burned 
out  in  delirium.  A certain  night  that  I passed  at 
his  pillow,  listening  to  his  wild  snatches  of  regret,  of 
aspiration,  of  rapture  and  awe  at  the  phantasmal  pic- 
tures with  which  his  brain  seemed  to  swarm,  recurs 

14* 


u 


322 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


to  my  memory  now  like  some  stray  page  from  a lost 
masterpiece  of  tragedy.  Before  a week  was  over  we 
had  buried  Jiim  in  the  little  Protestant  cemetery  on 
the  way  to  Fiesole.  The  Signora  Serafina,  whom  I 
had  caused  to  be  informed  of  his  illness,  had  come 
in  person,  I was  told,  to  inquire  about  its  progress ; 
but  she  was  absent  from  his  funeral,  which  was 
attended  by  but  a scanty  concourse  of  mourners. 
Half  a dozen  old  Florentine  sojourners,  in  spite  of 
the  prolonged  estrangement  which  had  preceded  his 
death,  had  felt  the  kindly  impulse  to  honor  his  grave. 
Among  them  was  my  friend  Mrs.  Coventry,  whom  I 
found,  on  my  departure,  waiting  at  her  carriage  door 
at  the  gate  of  the  cemetery. 

"Well,”  she  said,  relieving  at  last  with  a signifi- 
cant smile  the  solemnity  of  our  immediate  greeting, 
"and  the  great  Madonna?  Have  you  seen  her,  after 
all  ? ” 

“ I Ve  seen  her,”  I said  ; " she ’s  mine,  — by  be- 
quest. But  I shall  never  show  her  to  you.” 

" And  why  not,  pray  ? ” 

“My  dear  Mrs.  Coventry,  you'd  not  understand 
her!” 

“Upon  my  word,  you're  polite.” 

“ Excuse  me ; I 'm  sad  and  vexed  and  bitter.” 
And  with  reprehensible  rudeness,  I marched  away. 
I was  excessively  impatient  to  leave  Florence;  my 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


323 


friend’s  dark  spirit  seemed  diffused  through  all  things. 
I had  packed  my  trunk  to  start  for  Rome  that  night, 
and  meanwhile,  to  beguile  my  unrest,  I aimlessly 
paced  the  streets.  Chance  led  me  at  last  to  the 
church  of  San  Lorenzo.  Remembering  poor  Theo- 
bald’s phrase  about  Michael  Angelo,  — “ He  did  his 
best  at  a venture,”  — I went  in  and  turned  my  steps 
to  the  chapel  of  the  tombs.  Viewing  in  sadness  the 
sadness  of  its  immortal  treasures,  I fancied,  while  I 
stood  there,  that  the  scene  demanded  no  ampler  com- 
mentary. As  I passed  through  the  church  again  to 
depart,  a woman,  turning  away  from  one  of  the  side- 
altars,  met  me  face  to  face.  The  black  shawl  depend- 
ing from  her  head  draped  picturesquely  the  handsome 
visage  of  Madonna  Serafina.  She  stopped  as  she  rec- 
ognized me,  and  I saw  that  she  wished  to  speak. 
Her  eye  was  bright  and  her  ample  bosom  heaved  in 
a way  that  seemed  to  portend  a certain  sharpness  of 
reproach.  But  the  expression  of  my  own  face,  appar- 
ently, drew  the  sting  from  her  resentment,  and  she 
addressed  me  in  a tone  in  which  bitterness  was  tem- 
pered by  a sort  of  dogged  resignation.  “I  know  it 
was  you,  now,  that  separated  us,”  she  said.  “It  was 
a pity  he  ever  brought  you  to  see  me ! Of  course, 
you  could  n’t  think  of  me  as  he  did.  Well,  the  Lord 
gave  him,  the  Lord  has  taken  him.  I ’ve  just  paid  for 
a nine  days’  mass  for  his  soul.  And  I can  tell  you 


324 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


this,  signore,  I never  deceived  him.  Who  put  it  into 
his  head  that  I was  made  to  live  on  holy  thoughts 
and  fine  phrases  ? It  was  his  own  fancy,  and  it 
pleased  him  to  think  so.  Did  he  suffer  much  ? ” she 
added  more  softly,  after  a pause. 

“ His  sufferings  were  great,  but  they  were  short.” 

“ And  did  he  speak  of  me  ? ” She  had  hesitated  and 
dropped  her  eyes ; she  raised  them  with  her  question, 
and  revealed  in  their  sombre  stillness  a gleam  of  femi- 
nine confidence  which,  for  the  moment,  revived  and 
illumined  her  beauty.  Poor  Theobald ! Whatever 
name  he  had  given  his  passion,  it  was  still  her  fine 
eyes  that  had  charmed  him. 

“ Be  contented,  madam,”  I answered,  gravely. 

She  dropped  her  eyes  again  and  was  silent.  Then 
exhaling  a full,  rich  sigh,  as  she  gathered  her  shawl 
together : “ He  was  a magnificent  genius ! ” 

I bowed,  and  we  separated. 

Passing  through  a narrow  side-street  on  my  way 
back  to  my  hotel,  I perceived  above  a doorway  a sign 
which  it  seemed  to  me  I had  read  before.  I suddenly 
remembered  that  it  was  identical  with  the  superscrip- 
tion of  a card  that  I had  carried  for  an  hour  in  my 
waistcoat-pocket.  On  the  threshold  stood  the  ingen- 
ious artist  whose  claims  to  public  favor  were  thus  dis- 
tinctly signalized,  smoking  a pipe  in  the  evening  air, 
and  giving  the  finishing  polish  with  a bit  of  rag  to 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


325 


one  of  his  inimitable  “ combinations.”  I canght  the 
expressive  curl  of  a couple  of  tails.  He  recognized 
me,  removed  his  little  red  cap  with  a most  obsequi- 
ous bow,  and  motioned  me  to  enter  his  studio.  I 
returned  his  bow  and  passed  on,  vexed  with  the  ap- 
parition. For  a week  afterwards,  whenever  I was 
seized  among  the  ruins  of  triumphant  Rome  with 
some  peculiarly  poignant  memory  of  Theobalds  tran- 
scendent illusions  and  deplorable  failure,  I seemed 
to  hear  a fantastic,  impertinent  murmur,  “ Cats  and 
monkeys,  monkeys  and  cats ; all  human  life  is 
there  ! ” 


THE 

Romance  of  Certain  Old  Clothes. 


. 


* 

■ 

. 


THE 


ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 


OWARD  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century 


JL  there  lived  in  the  Province  of  Massachusetts 
a widowed  gentlewoman,  the  mother  of  three  chil- 
dren. Her  name  is  of  little  account : I shall  take 
the  liberty  of  calling  her  Mrs.  Willoughby, — a name, 
like  her  own,  of  a highly  respectable  sound.  She  had 
been  left  a widow  after  some  six  years  of  marriage, 
and  had  devoted  herself  to  the  care  of  her  progeny. 
These  young  persons  grew  up  in  a manner  to  reward 
her  zeal  and  to  gratify  her  fondest  hopes.  The  first- 
born was  a son,  whom  she  had  called  Bernard,  after 
his  father.  The  others  were  daughters,  — born  at  an 
interval  of  three  years  apart.  Good  looks  were  tra- 
ditional in  the  family,  and  this  youthful  trio  were 
not  likely  to  allow  the  tradition  to  perish.  The  boy 
was  of  that  fair  and  ruddy  complexion  and  of  that 
athletic  mould  which  in  those  days  (as  in  these)  were 
the  sign  of  genuine  English  blood,  — a frank,  affec- 


330  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 


tionate  young  fellow,  a deferential  son,  a patronizing 
brother,  and  a steadfast  friend.  Clever,  however,  he 
was  not ; the  wit  of  the  family  had  been  apportioned 
chiefly  to  his  sisters.  Mr.  Willoughby  had  been  a 
great  reader  of  Shakespeare,  at  a time  when  this 
pursuit  implied  more  liberality  of  taste  than  at  the 
present  day,  and  in  a community  where  it  required 
much  courage  to  patronize  the  drama  even  in  the 
closet ; and  he  had  wished  to  record  his  admiration 
of  the  great  poet  by  calling  his  daughters  out  of  his 
favorite  plays.  Upon  the  elder  he  had  bestowed  the 
romantic  name  of  Viola;  and  upon  the  younger,  the 
more  serious  one  of  Perdita,  in  memory  of  a little 
girl  bom  between  them,  who  had  lived  but  a few 
weeks. 

When  Bernard  Willoughby  came  to  his  sixteenth 
year,  his  mother  put  a brave  face  upon  it,  and  pre- 
pared to  execute  her  husband’s  last  request.  This 
had  been  an  earnest  entreaty  that,  at  the  proper  age, 
his  son  should  be  sent  out  to  England,  to  complete 
his  education  at  the  University  of  Oxford,  which  had 
been  the  seat  of  his  own  studies.  Mrs.  Willoughby 
fancied  that  the  lad’s  equal  was  not  to  be  found  in 
the  two  hemispheres,  but  she  had  the  antique  wifely 
submissiveness.  She  swallowed  her  sobs,  and  made 
up  her  boy’s  trunk  and  his  simple  provincial  outfit, 
and  sent  him  on  his  way  across  the  seas.  Bernard 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  331 


was  entered  at  his  father’s  college,  and  spent  five 
years  in  England,  without  great  honor,  indeed,  but 
with  a vast  deal  of  pleasure  and  no  discredit.  On 
leaving  the  University  he  made  the  journey  to  France. 
In  his  twenty-third  year  he  took  ship  for  home,  pre- 
pared to  find  poor  little  New  England  (New  England 
was  very  small  in  those  days)  an  utterly  intolerable 
place  of  abode.  But  there  had  been  changes  at  home, 
as  well  as  in  Mr.  Bernard’s  opinions.  He  found  his 
mother’s  house  quite  habitable,  and  his  sisters  grown 
into  two  very  charming  young  ladies,  with  all  the 
accomplishments  and  graces  of  the  young  women  of 
Britain,  and  a certain  native-grown  gentle  brusquerie 
and  wildness,  which,  if  it  was  not  an  accomplishment, 
was  certainly  a grace  the  more.  Bernard  privately 
assured  his  mother  that  his  sisters  were  fully  a match 
for  the  most  genteel  young  women  in  England ; where- 
upon poor  Mrs.  Willoughby,  you  may  be  sure,  bade 
them  hold  up  their  heads.  Such  was  Bernard’s  opin- 
ion, and  such,  in  a tenfold  higher  degree,  was  the  opin- 
ion of  Mr.  Arthur  Lloyd.  This  gentleman,  I hasten 
to  add,  was  a college-mate  of  Mr.  Bernard,  a young 
man  of  reputable  family,  of  a good  person  and  a 
handsome  inheritance;  which  latter  appurtenance  he 
proposed  to  invest  in  trade  in  this  country.  He  and 
Bernard  were  warm  friends ; they  had  crossed  the  ocean 
together,  and  the  young  American  had  lost  no  time  in 


332  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

presenting  him  at  his  mother’s  house,  where  he  had 
made  quite  as  good  an  impression  as  that  which  he 
had  received,  and  of  which  I have  just  given  a hint. 

The  two  sisters  were  at  this  time  in  all  the  freshness 
of  their  youthful  bloom ; each  wearing,  of  course,  this 
natural  brilliancy  in  the  manner  that  became  her  best. 
They  were  equally  dissimilar  in  appearance  and  char- 
acter. Viola,  the  elder,  — now  in  her  twenty-second 
year,  — was  tall  and  fair,  with  calm  gray  eyes  and 
auburn  tresses ; a very  faint  likeness  to  the  Viola  of 
Shakespeare’s  comedy,  whom  I imagine  as  a brunette 
(if  you  wfill),  but  a slender,  airy  creature,  full  of  the 
softest  and  finest  emotions.  Miss  Willoughby,  with 
her  candid  complexion,  her  fine  arms,  her  majestic 
height,  and  her  slow  utterance,  was  not  cut  out  for 
adventures.  She  would  never  have  put  on  a man’s 
jacket  and  hose ; and,  indeed,  being  a very  plump 
beauty,  it  is  perhaps  as  well  that  she  would  not. 
Perdita,  too,  might  very  well  have  exchanged  the 
sweet  melancholy  of  her  name  against  something  more 
in  consonance  with  her  aspect  and  disposition.  She 
was  a positive  brunette,  short  of  stature,  light  of  foot, 
with  a vivid  dark  brown  eye.  She  had  been  from  her 
childhood  a creature  of  smiles  and  gayety ; and  so  far 
from  making  you  wait  for  an  answer  to  your  speech, 
as  her  handsome  sister  was  wont  to  do  (while  she 
gazed  at  you  with  her  somewhat  cold  gray  eyes),  she 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  333 


liad  given  you  the  choice  of  half  a dozen,  suggested 
by  the  successive  clauses  of  your  proposition,  before 
you  had  got  to  the  end  of  it. 

The  young  girls  were  very  glad  to  see  their  brother 
once  more  ; but  they  found  themselves  quite  able  to 
maintain  a reserve  of  good-will  for  their  brother’s 
friend.  Among  the  young  men  their  friends  and 
neighbors,  the  belle  jeunesse  of  the  Colony,  there  were 
many  excellent  fellows,  several  devoted  swains,  and 
some  two  or  three  who  enjoyed  the  reputation  of 
universal  charmers  and  conquerors.  But  the  home- 
bred arts  and  the  somewhat  boisterous  gallantry  of 
those  honest  young  colonists  were  completely  eclipsed 
by  the  good  looks,  the  fine  clothes,  the  punctilious 
courtesy,  the  perfect  elegance,  the  immense  informa- 
tion, of  Mr.  Arthur  Lloyd.  He  was  in  reality  no 
paragon  ; he  was  an  honest,  resolute,  intelligent  young 
man,  rich  in  pounds  sterling,  in  his  health  and  com- 
fortable hopes,  and  his  little  capital  of  uninvested 
affections.  But  he  was  a gentleman ; he  had  a hand- 
some face ; he  had  studied  and  travelled  ; he  spoke 
French,  he  played  on  the  flute,  and  he  read  verses 
aloud  with  very  great  taste.  There  were  a dozen 
reasons  why  Miss  Willoughby  and  her  sister  should 
forthwith  have  been  rendered  fastidious  in  the  choice 
of  their  male  acquaintance.  The  imagination  of  wo- 
man is  especially  adapted  to  the  various  small  conven- 


334  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

tions  and  mysteries  of  polite  society.  Mr.  Lloyd’s 
talk  told  our  little  New  England  maidens  a vast  deal 
more  of  the  ways  and  means  of  people  of  fashion  in 
European  capitals  than  he  had  any  idea  of  doing.  It 
was  delightful  to  sit  by  and  hear  him  and  Bernard 
discourse  upon  the  fine  people  and  fine  things  they 
had  seen.  They  would  all  gather  round  the  fire  after 
tea,  in  the  little  wainscoted  parlor,  — quite  innocent 
then  of  any  intention  of  being  picturesque  or  of  being 
anything  else,  indeed,  than  economical,  and  saving  an 
outlay  in  stamped  papers  and  tapestries,  — and  the  two 
young  men  would  remind  each  other,  across  the  rug, 
of  this,  that,  and  the  other  adventure.  Viola  and 
Perdita  would  often  have  given  their  ears  to  know 
exactly  what  adventure  it  was,  and  where  it  happened, 
and  who  was  there,  and  what  the  ladies  had  on ; but 
in  those  days  a well-bred  young  woman  was  not  ex- 
pected to  break  into  the  conversation  of  her  own 
movement  or  to  ask  too  many  questions ; and  the  poor 
girls  used  therefore  to  sit  fluttering  behind  the  more 
languid  — or  more  discreet  — curiosity  of  their  mother. 

That  they  were  both  very  fine  girls  Arthur  Lloyd 
was  not  slow  to  discover ; but  it  took  him  some  time  to 
satisfy  himself  as  to  the  apportionment  of  their  charms. 
He  had  a strong  presentiment  — an  emotion  of  a na- 
ture entirely  too  cheerful  to  be  called  a foreboding  — 
that  he  was  destined  to  marry  one  of  them ; yet  he  was 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  335 


unable  to  arrive  at  a preference,  and  for  such  a con- 
summation a preference  was  certainly  indispensable, 
inasmuch  as  Lloyd  was  quite  too  gallant  a fellow  to 
make  a choice  by  lot  and  be  cheated  of  the  heavenly 
delight  of  falling  in  love.  He  resolved  to  take  things 
easily,  and  to  let  his  heart  speak.  Meanwhile,  lie  was 
on  a very  pleasant  footing.  Mrs.  Willoughby  showed 
a dignified  indifference  to  his  “ intentions,”  equally  re- 
mote from  a carelessness  of  her  daughters’  honor  and 
from  that  odious  alacrity  to  make  him  commit  himself, 
which,  in  his  quality  of  a young  man  of  property,  he 
had  but  too  often  encountered  in  the  venerable  dames 
of  his  native  islands.  As  for  Bernard,  all  that  he  asked 
was  that  his  friend  should  take  his  sisters  as  his  own ; 
and  as  for  the  poor  girls  themselves,  however  each  may 
have  secretly  longed  for  the  monopoly  of  Mr.  Lloyd’s 
attentions,  they  observed  a very  decent  and  modest 
and  contented  demeanor. 

Towards  each  other,  however,  they  were  somewhat 
more  on  the  offensive.  They  were  good  sisterly  friends, 
betwixt  whom  it  would  take  more  than  a day  for  the 
seeds  of  jealousy  to  sprout  and  bear  fruit;  but  the 
young  girls  felt  that  the  seeds  had  been  sown  on  the 
day  that  Mr.  Lloyd  came  into  the  house.  Each  made 
up  her  mind  that,  if  she  should  be  slighted,  she  would 
bear  her  grief  in  silence,  and  that  no  one  should  be  any 
the  wiser ; for  if  they  had  a great  deal  of  love,  they 


336  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

had  also  a great  deal  of  pride.  But  each  prayed  in 
secret,  nevertheless,  that  upon  her  the  glory  might  fall. 
They  had  need  of  a vast  deal  of  patience,  of  self-control, 
and  of  dissimulation.  In  those  days  a young  girl  of 
decent  breeding  could  make  no  advances  whatever,  and 
barely  respond,  indeed,  to  those  that  were  made.  She 
was  expected  to  sit  still  in  her  chair  with  her  eyes  on 
the  carpet,  watching  the  spot  where  the  mystic  hand- 
kerchief should  fall.  Poor  Arthur  Lloyd  was  obliged 
to  undertake  his  wooing  in  the. little  wainscoted  par- 
lor, before  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Willoughby,  her  son,  and 
his  prospective  sister-in-law.  But  youth  and  love  are 
so  cunning  that  a hundred  signs  and  tokens  might 
travel  to  and  fro,  and  not  one  of  these  three  pair  of 
eyes  detect  them  in  their  passage.  The  young  girls 
had  but  one  chamber  and  one  bed  between  them,  and 
for  long  hours  together  they  were  under  each  other’s 
direct  inspection.  That  each  knew  that  she  was  being 
watched,  however,  made  not  a grain  of  difference  in 
those  little  offices  which  they  mutually  rendered,  or 
in  the  various  household  tasks  which  they  performed 
in  common.  Neither  flinched  nor  fluttered  beneath 
the  silent  batteries  of  her  sister’s  eyes.  The  only  ap- 
parent change  in  their  habits  was  that  they  had  less 
to  say  to  each  other.  It  was  impossible  to  talk  about 
Mr.  Lloyd,  and  it  was  ridiculous  to  talk  about  any- 
thing else.  By  tacit  agreement  they  began  to  \vear 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  337 

all  tlieir  choice  finery,  and  to  devise  such  little  im- 
plements of  coquetry,  in  the  way  of  ribbons  and  top- 
knots  and  furbelows  as  were  sanctioned  by  indubitable 
modesty.  They  executed  in  the  same  inarticulate 
fashion  an  agreement  of  sincerity  on  these  delicate 
matters.  “ Is  it  better  so  ? ” Viola  would  ask,  tying 
a bunch  of  ribbons  on  her  bosom,  and  turning  about 
from  her  glass  to  her  sister.  Perdita  would  look  up 
gravely  from  her  work  and  examine  the  decoration. 

“ I think  you  had  better  give  it  another  loop,”  she 
would  say,  with  great  solemnity,  looking  hard  at  her 
sister  with  eyes  that  added,  “ upon  my  honor ! ” So 
they  were  forever  stitching  and  trimming  their  petti- 
coats, and  pressing  out  their  muslins,  and  contriving 
washes  and  ointments  and  cosmetics,  like  the  ladies 
in  the  household  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Some 
three  or  four  months  went  by ; it  grew  to  * be  mid- 
winter, and  as  yet  Viola  knew  that  if  Perdita  had 
nothing  more  to  boast  of  than  she,  there  was  not 
much  to  be  feared  from  her  rivalry.  But  Perdita  by 
this  time,  the  charming  Perdita,  felt  that  her  secret 

» 

had  grown  to  be  tenfold  more  precious  than  her  sis- 
ters. 

One  afternoon  Miss  Willoughby  sat  alone  before  her 
toilet-glass  combing  out  her  long  hair.  It  was  getting 
too  dark  to  see ; she*  lit  the  two  candles  in  their  sock- 
ets on  the  frame  of  her  mirror,  and  then  went  to  the 

15 


V 


338  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

window  to  draw  her  curtains.  It  was  a gray  Decem- 
ber evening;  the  landscape  was  bare  and  bleak,  and 
the  sky  heavy  with  snow-clouds.  At  the  end  of  the 
long  garden  into  which  her  window  looked  was  a wall 
with  a little  postern  door,  opening  into  a lane.  The 
door  stood  ajar,  as  she  could  vaguely  see  in  the  gath- 
ering darkness,  and  moved  slowly  to  and  fro,  as  if 
some  one  were  swaying  it  from  the  lane  without.  It 
was  doubtless  a servant-maid.  But  as  she  was  about 
to  drop  her  curtain,  Yiola  saw  her  sister  step  within 
the  garden,  and  hurry  along  the  path  toward  the 
house.  She  dropped  the  curtain,  all  save  a little 
crevice  for  her  eyes.  As  Perdita  came  up  the  path, 
she  seemed  to  be  examining  something  in  her  hand, 
holding  it  close  to  her  eyes.  When  she  reached  the 
house  she  stopped  a moment,  looked  intently  at  the 
object,  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

Poor  Yiola  slowly  came  back  to  her  chair,  and  sat 
down  before  her  glass,  where,  if  she  had  looked  at  it 
less  abstractedly,  she  would  have  seen  her  handsome 
features  sadly  disfigured  by  jealousy.  A moment 
afterwards  the  door  opened  behind  her,  and  her  sister 
came  into  the  room,  out  of  breath,  and  her  cheeks 
aglow  with  the  chilly  air. 

Perdita  started.  “ Ah,”  said  she,  “ I thought  you 
were  with  our  mother.”  The  ladies  were  to  go  to  a 
tea-party,  and  on  such  occasions  it  was  the  habit  of 


THE  ROMANCE  OE  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  339 


one  of  the  young  girls  to  help  their  mother  to  dress. 
Instead  of  coming  in,  Perdita  lingered  at  the  door. 

“ Come  in,  come  in,”  said  Viola.  “ We ’ve  more 
than  an  hour  yet.  I should  like  you  very  much  to 
give  a few  strokes  to  iny  hair.”  She  knew  that  her 
sister  wished  to  retreat,  and  that  she  could  see  in 
the  glass  all  her  movements  in  the  room.  “ Nay,  just 
help  me  with  my  hair,”  she  said,  “ and  I ’ll  go  to 
mamma.” 

Perdita  came  reluctantly,  and  took  the  brush.  She 
saw  her  sister’s  eyes,  in  the  glass,  fastened  hard  upon 
her  hands.  She  had  not  made  three  passes,  when  Vi- 
ola clapped  her  own  right  hand  upon  her  sister’s  left, 
and  started  out  of  her  chair.  “ Whose  ring  is  that  ? ” 
she  cried  passionately,  drawing  her  towards  the  light. 

On  the  youijg  girl’s  third  finger  glistened  a little 
gold  ring,  adorned  with  a couple  of  small  rubies. 
Perdita  felt  that  she  need  no  longer  keep  her  secret, 
yet  that  she  must  put  a bold  face  on  her  avowal. 
“ It ’s  mine,”  she  said  proudly. 

“Who  gave  it  to  you?”  cried  the  other. 

Perdita  hesitated  a moment.  “Mr.  Lloyd.” 

“ Mr.  Lloyd  is  generous,  all  of  a sudden.” 

“Ah  no,”  cried  Perdita,  with  spirit,  “not  all  of  a 
sudden.  He  offered  it  to  me  a month  ago.” 

“ And  you  needed  a month’s  begging  to  take  it  ? ” 
said  Viola,  looking  at  the  little  trinket ; which  indeed 


340  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

was  not  especially  elegant,  although  it  was  the  best 
that  the  jeweller  of  the  Province  could  furnish.  “ I 
should  n’t  have  taken  it  in  less  than  two.’* 

“ It  is  n’t  the  ring,”  said  Perdita,  “ it ’s  what  it 
means ! ” 

“ It  means  that  you  ’re  not  a modest  girl,”  cried 
Viola.  “Pray  does  your  mother  know  of  your  con- 
duct ? does  Bernard  ? ” 

“ My  mother  has  approved  my  ‘ conduct,’  as  you  call 
it.  Mr.  Lloyd  has  asked  my  hand,  and  mamma  has 
given  it.  Would  you  have  had  him  apply  to  you, 
sister  ? ” 

Viola  gave  her  sister  a long  look,  full  of  passionate 
envy  and  sorrow.  Then  she  dropped  her  lashes  on 
her  pale  cheeks  and  turned  away.  Perdita  felt  that 
it  had  not  been  a pretty  scene ; but  it  was  her  sistePs 
fault.  But  the  elder  girl  rapidly  called  back  her 
pride,  and  turned  herself  about  again.  “ You  have 
my  very  best  wishes,”  she  said,  with  a low  curtsey. 
“ I wish  you  every  happiness,  and  a very  long  life.” 

Perdita  gave  a bitter  laugh.  “ Don’t  speak  in  that 
tone,”  she  cried.  “ I ’d  rather  you  cursed  me  outright. 
Come,  sister,”  she  added,  “ he  could  n’t  marry  both 
of  us.” 

“ I wish  you  very  great  joy,”  Viola  repeated  mechan- 
ically, sitting  down  to  her  glass  again,  “ and  a very 
long  life,  and  plenty  of  children.” 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES  341 


There  was  something  in  the  sound  of  these  words 
not  at  all  to  Perdita’s  taste.  “ Will  you  give  me  a 
year,  at  least  ? ” she  said.  “ In  a year  I can  have  one 
little  boy,  — or  one  little  girl  at  least.  If  you  ’ll  give 
me  your  brush  again  I’ll  do  your  hair.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  Viola.  “ You  had  better  go  to 
mamma.  It  is  n’t  becoming  that  a young  lady  with  a 
promised  husband  should  wait  on  a girl  with  none.” 

“ Nay,”  said  Perdita,  good-humoredly,  “ I have  Ar- 
thur to  wait  upon  me.  You  need  my  service  more 
than  I need  yours.” 

But  her  sister  motioned  her  away,  and  she  left  the 
room.  When  she  had  gone  poor  Viola  fell  on  her. 
knees  before  her  dressing-table,  buried  her  head  in  her 
arms,  and  poured  out  a flood  of  tears  and  sobs.  She 
felt  very  much  the  better  for  this  effusion  of  sorrow. 
When  her  sister  came  back,  she  insisted  upon  helping 
her  to  dress,  and  upon  her  wearing  her  prettiest  things. 
She  forced  upon  her  acceptance  a bit  of  lace  of  her 
own,  and  declared  that  now  that  she  was  to  be  married 
she  should  do  her  best  to  appear  worthy  of  her  lover’s 
choice.  She  discharged  these  offices  in  stern  silence; 
but,  such  as  they  were,  they  had  to  do  duty  as  an 
apology  and  an  atonement ; she  never  made  any  other. 

Now  that  Lloyd  was  received  by  the  family  as  an 
accepted  suitor,  nothing  remained  but  to  fix  the  wed- 
ding-day. It  was  appointed  for  the  following  April, 


342  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

and  in  the  interval  preparations  were  diligently  made 
for  the  marriage.  Lloyd,  on  his  side,  was  busy  with 
his  commercial  arrangements,  and  with  establishing 
a correspondence  with  the  great  mercantile  house  to 
which  he  had  attached  himself  in  England.  He  was 
therefore  not  so  frequent  a visitor  at  Mrs.  Willough- 
by’s as  during  the  months  of  his  diffidence  and  irres- 
olution, and  poor  Viola  had  less  to  suffer  than  she 
had  feared  from  the  sight  of  the  mutual  endearments 
of  the  young  lovers.  Touching  his  future  sister-in- 
law,  Lloyd  had  a perfectly  clear  conscience.  There 
had  not  been  a particle  of  sentiment  uttered  between 
them,  and  he  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that  she 
coveted  anything  more  than  his  fraternal  regard.  He 
was  quite  at  his  ease;  life  promised  so  well,  both  domes- 
tically and  financially.  The  lurid  clouds  of  revolution 
were  as  yet  twenty  years  beneath  the  horizon,  and  that 
his  connubial  felicity  should  take  a tragic  turn  it  was 
absurd,  it  was  blasphemous,  to  apprehend.  Meanwhile 
at  Mrs.  Willoughby’s  there  was  a greater  rustling  of 
silks,  a more  rapid  clicking  of  scissors  and  flying  of 
needles,  than  ever.  Mrs.  Willoughby  had  determined 
that  her  daughter  should  carry  from  home  the  most 
elegant  outfit  that  her  money  could  buy,  or  that  the 
country  could  furnish.  All  the  sage  women  in  the 
county  were  convened,  and  their  united  taste  was 
brought  to  bear  on  Perdita’s  wardrobe.  Viola’s  situa- 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  343 


tion,  at  this  moment,  was  assuredly  not  to  be  envied. 
The  poor  girl  had  an  inordinate  love  of  dress,  and  the 
very  best  taste  in  the  world,  as  her  sister  perfectly  well 
knew.  Yiola  was  tall,  she  was  stately  and  sweeping, 
she  was  made  to  carry  stiff  brocade  and  masses  of 
heavy  lace,  such  as  belong  to  the  toilet  of  a rich  man’s 
wife.  But  Yiola  sat  aloof,  with  her  beautiful  arms 
folded  and  her  head  averted,  while  her  mother  and 
sister  and  the  venerable  women  aforesaid  worried  and 
wondered  over  their  materials,  oppressed  by  the  multi- 
tude of  their  resources.  One  day  there  came  in  a beau- 
tiful piece  of  white  silk,  brocaded  with  celestial  blue 
and  silver,  sent  by  the  bridegroom  himself,  — it  not 
being  thought  amiss  in  those  days  that  the  husband 
elect  should  contribute  to  the  bride’s  trousseau.  Perdita 
was  quite  at  loss  to  imagine  a fashion  which  should 
do  sufficient  honor  to  the  splendor  of  the  material. 

“ Blue ’s  your  color,  sister,  more  than  mine,”  she  said, 
with  appealing  eyes.  “ It ’s  a pity  it ’s  not  for  you. 
You ’d  know  what  to  do  with  it.” 

Yiola  got  up  from  her  place  and  looked  at  the  great 
shining  fabric  as  it  lay  spread  over  the  back  of  a chair. 
Then  she  took  it  up  in  her  hands  and  felt  it,  — lov- 
ingly, as  Perdita  could  see,  — and  turned  about  toward 
the  mirror  with  it.  She  let  it  roll  down  to  her  feet, 
and  flung  the  other  end  over  her  shoulder,  gathering  it 
in  about  her  waist  with  her  white  arm  bare  to  the 


344  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

elbow.  She  threw  back  her  head,  and  looked  at  her 
image,  and  a hanging  tress  of  her  auburn  hair  fell  upon 
the  gorgeous  surface  of  the  silk.  It  made  a dazzling 
picture.  The  women  standing  about  uttered  a little 
“ Ah  ! ” of  admiration.  “ Yes,  indeed,”  said  Viola,  quiet- 
ly, “ blue  is  my  color.”  But  Perdita  could  see  that  her 
fancy  had  been  stirred,  and  that  she  would  now  fall  to 
work  and  solve  all  their  silken  riddles.  And  indeed 
she  behaved  very  well,  as  Perdita,  knowing  her  insatia- 
ble love  of  millinery,  was  quite  ready  to  declare.  In- 
numerable yards  of  lustrous  silk  and  satin,  of  muslin, 
velvet,  and  lace,  passed  through  her  cunning  hands, 
without  a word  of  envy  coming  from  her  lips.  Thanks 
to  her  industry,  when  the  wedding-day  came  Perdita 
was  prepared  to  espouse  more  of  the  vanities  of  life 
than  any  fluttering  young  bride  who  had  yet  challenged 
the  sacramental  blessing  of  a New  England  divine. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  young  couple  should 
go  out  and  spend  the  first  days  of  their  wedded  life  at 
the  country  house  of  an  English  gentleman,  — a man 
of  rank  and  a very  kind  friend  to  Lloyd.  He  was 
an  unmarried  man ; lie  professed  himself  delighted  to 
withdraw  and  leave  them  for  a week  to  their  billing 
and  cooing.  After  the  ceremony  at  church,  — it  had 
been  performed  by  an  English  parson,  — young  Mrs. 
Lloyd  hastened  back  to  her  mother's  house  to  change 
her  wedding  gear  for  a riding-dress.  Viola  helped  her 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  345 


to  effect  the  change,  in  the  little  old  room  in  which 
they  had  been  fond  sisters  together.  Perdita  then  hur- 
ried off  to  bid  farewell  to  her  mother,  leaving  Viola 
to  follow.  The  parting  was  short ; the  horses  were  at 
the  door  and  Arthur  impatient  to  start.  But  Viola 
had  not  followed,  and  Perdita  hastened  back  to  her 
room,  opening  the  door  abruptly.  Viola,  as  usual,  was 
before  the  glass,  but  in  a position  which  caused  the 
other  to  stand  still,  amazed.  She  had  dressed  herself 
in  Perdita’ s cast-off  wedding  veil  and  wreath,  and  on 
her  neck  she  had  hung  the  heavy  string  of  pearls 
which  the  young  girl  had  received  from  her  husband 
as  a wedding-gift.  These  things  had  been  hastily  laid 
aside,  to  await  their  possessors  disposal  on  her  return 
from  the  country.  Bedizened  in  this  unnatural  garb, 
Viola  stood  at  the  mirror,  plunging  a long  look  into 
its  depths,  and  reading  Heaven  knows  what  audacious 
visions.  Perdita  was  horrified.  It  was  a hideous  im- 
age of  their  old  rivalry  come  to  life  again.  She  made 
a step  toward  her  sister,  as  if  to  pull  off  the  veil  and 
the  flowers.  But  catching  her  eyes  in  the  glass,  she 
stopped. 

“ Farewell,  Viola,”  she  said.  “You  might  at  least 
have  waited  till  I had  got  out  of  the  house.”  And 
she  hurried  away  from  the  room. 

Mr.  Lloyd  had  purchased  in  Boston  a house  which, 
in  the  taste  of  those  days,  was  considered  a marvel 

15* 


346  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

of  elegance  and  comfort  ; and  here  he  very  soon 
established  himself  with  his  young  wife.  He  was 
thus  separated  by  a distance  of  twenty  miles  from 
the  residence  of  his  mother-in-law.  Twenty  miles,  in 
that  primitive  era  of  roads  and  conveyances,  were  as 
serious  a matter  as  a hundred  at  the  present  day, 
and  Mrs.  Willoughby  saw  but  little  of  her  daughter 
during  the  first  twelvemonth  of  her  marriage.  She 
suffered  in  no  small  degree  from  her  absence ; and 
her  affliction  was  not  diminished  by  the  fact  that 
Viola  had  fallen  into  terribly  low  spirits  and  was 
not  to  be  roused  or  cheered  but  by  change  of  air 
and  circumstances.  The  real  cause  of  the  young 
girl’s  dejection  the  reader  will  not  be  slow  to  sus- 
pect. Mrs.  Willoughby  and  her  gossips,  however, 
deemed  her  complaint  a purely  physical  one,  and 
doubted  not  that  she  would  obtain  relief  from  the 
remedy  just  mentioned.  Her  mother  accordingly  pro- 
posed on  her  behalf  a visit  to  certain  relatives  on 
the  paternal  side,  established  in  New  York,  who  had 
long  complained  that  they  were  able  to  see  so  lit- 
tle of  their  New  England  cousins.  Viola  was  de- 
spatched to  these  good  people,  under  a suitable 
escort,  and  remained  with  them  for  several  months. 
In  the  interval  her  brother  Bernard,  who  had  begun 
the  practice  of  the  law,  made  up  his  mind  to  take 
a wife.  Viola  came  home  to  the  wedding,  appar- 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  347 


ently  cured  of  her  heartache,  with  honest  roses  and 
lilies  in  her  face,  and  a proud  smile  on  her  lips. 
Arthur  Lloyd  came  over  from  Boston  to  see  his 
brother-in-law  married,  but  without  his  wife,  who 
was  expecting  shortly  to  present  him  with  an  heir. 
It  was  nearly  a year  since  Yiola  had  seen  him.  She 
was  glad  — she  hardly  knew  why — that  Perdita 
had  stayed  at  home.  Arthur  looked  happy,  but  he 
was  more  grave  and  solemn  than  before  his  mar- 
riage. She  thought  he  looked  “ interesting/’  — for 
although  the  word  in  its  modern  sense  was  not 
then  invented,  we  may  be  sure  that  the  idea  was. 
The  truth  is,  he  was  simply  preoccupied  with  his 
wife’s  condition.  Nevertheless,  he  by  no  means  failed 
to  observe  Viola’s  beauty  and  splendor,  and  how  she 
quite  effaced  the  ^)oor  little  bride.  The  allowance 
that  Perdita  had  enjoyed  for  her  dress  had  now  been 
transferred  to  her  sister,  who  turned  it  to  prodigious 
account.  On  the  morning  after  the  wedding,  he  had 
a lady’s  saddle  put  on  the  horse  of  the  servant  who 
had  come  with  him  from  town,  and  went  out  with 
the  young  girl  for  a ride.  It  was  a keen,  clear 
morning  in  January  ; the  ground  was  bare  and  hard, 
and  the  horses  in  good  condition,  — to  say  nothing 
of  Viola,  who  was  charming  ixi  her  hat  and  plume, 
and  her  dark  blue  riding-coat,  trimmed  with  fur. 
They  rode  all  the  moaning,  they  lost  their  way,  and 


348  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

were  obliged  to  stop  for  dinner  at  a farm-house. 
The  early  winter  dusk  had  fallen  when  they  got 
home.  Mrs.  Willoughby  met  them  with  a long  face. 
A messenger  had  arrived  at  noon  from  Mrs.  Lloyd ; 
she  was  beginning  to  be  ill,  and  desired  her  hus- 
band’s immediate  return.  The  young  man,  at  the 
thought  that  he  had  lost  several  hours,  and  that 
by  hard  riding  he  might  already  have  been  with 
his  wife,  uttered  a passionate  oath.  He  barely  con- 
sented to  stop  for  a mouthful  of  supper,  but  mount- 
ed the  messenger’s  horse  and  started  off  at  a gallop. 

He  reached  home  at  midnight.  His  wife  had  been 
delivered  of  a little  girl.  “ Ah,  why  were  n’t  you 
with  me  ? ” she  said,  as  he  came  to  her  bedside. 

“I  was  out  of  the  house  when  the  man  came.  I 
was  with  Viola,”  said  Lloyd,  innocently. 

Mrs.  Lloyd  made  a little  moan,  and  turned  about. 
But  she  continued  to  do  very  well,  and  for  a week 
her  improvement  was  uninterrupted.  Finally,  how- 
ever, through  some  indiscretion  in  the  way  of  diet 
or  of  exposure,  it  was  checked,  and  the  poor  lady 
grew  rapidly  worse.  Lloyd  was  in  despair.  It  very 
soon  became  evident  that  she  was  breathing  her  last. 
Mrs.  Lloyd  came  to  a sense  of  her  approaching  end, 
and  declared  that  she  was  reconciled  with  death. 
On  the  third  evening  after  the  change  took  place 
she  told  her  husband  that  she  felt  she  would  not 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  349 


outlast  the  night.  She  dismissed  her  servants,  and 
also  requested  her  mother  to  withdraw,  — Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby having  arrived  on  the  preceding  day.  She 
had  had  her  infant  placed  on  the  bed  beside  her, 
and  she  lay  on  her  side,  with  the  child  against  her 
breast,  holding  her  husband’s  hands.  The  night-lamp 
was  hidden  behind  the  heavy  curtains  of  the  bed, 
but  the  room  was  illumined  with  a red  glow  from 
the  immense  fire  of  logs  on  the  hearth. 

“It  seems  strange  to  die  by  such  a fire  as  that,” 
the  young  woman  said,  feebly  trying  to  smile.  “If 
I had  but  a little  of  such  fire  in  my  veins  ! But  I ’ve 
given  it  all  to  this  little  spark  of  mortality.”  And 
she  dropped  her  eyes  on  her  child.  Then  raising 
them  she  looked  at  her  husband  with  a long  pene- 
trating gaze.  The  last  feeling  which  lingered  in  her 
heart  was  one  of  mistrust.  She  had  not  recovered 
from  the  shock  which  Arthur  had  given  her  by  tell- 
ing her  that  in  the  hour  of  her  agony  he  had  been 
with  Viola.  She  trusted  her  husband  very  nearly  as 
well  as  she  loved  him ; but  now  that  she  was  called 
away  forever,  she  felt  a cold  horror  of  her  sister.  She 
felt  in  her  soul  that  Viola  had  never  ceased  to  envy 
her  good  fortune;  and  a year  of  happy  security  had 
not  effaced  the  young  girl’s  image,  dressed  in  her 
wedding  garments,  and  smiling  with  coveted  triumph. 
Now  that  Arthur  was  to  be  alone,  what  might  not 


'350  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

Viola  do  ? She  was  beautiful,  she  was  engaging ; 
what  arts  might  she  not  use,  what  impression  might 
she  not  make  upon  the  young  man’s  melancholy 
heart  ? Mrs.  Lloyd  looked  at  her  husband  in  silence. 
It  seemed  hard,  after  all,  to  doubt  of  his  constancy. 
His  fine  eyes  were  filled  with  tears;  his  face  was 
convulsed  with  weeping;  the  clasp  of  his  hands  was 
warm  and  passionate.  How  noble  he  looked,  how 
tender,  how  faithful  and  devoted ! “ Nay,”  thought 

Perdita,  “ he  ’s  not  for  such  as  Viola.  He  11  never 
forget  me.  Nor  does  Viola  truly  care  for  him;  she 
cares  only  for  vanities  and  finery  and  jewels.”  And 
she  dropped  her  eyes  on  her  white  hands,  which  her 
husband’s  liberality  had  covered  with  rings,  and  on 
the  lace  ruffles  which  trimmed  the  edge  of  her  night- 
dress. “ She  covets  my  rings  and  my  laces  more  than 
she  covets  my  husband.” 

At  this  moment  the  thought  of  her  sister’s  rapacity 
seemed  to  cast  a dark  shadow  between  her  and  the 
helpless  figure  of  her  little  girl.  “ Arthur,”  she  said, 
“you  must  take  off  my  rings.  I shall  not  be  buried 
in  them.  One  of  these  days  my  daughter  shall  wear 
them,  — my  rings  and  my  laces  and  silks.  I had 
them  all  brought  out  and  shown  me  to-day.  It’s  a 
great  wardrobe,  — there’s  not  such  another  in  the 
Province ; I can  say  it  without  vanity  now  that  I ’ve 
done  with  it.  It  will  be  a great  inheritance  for  my 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  351 


daughter,  when  she  grows  into  a young  woman. 
There  are  things  there  that  a man  never  buys  twice, 
and  if  they  ’re  lost  you  ’ll  never  again  see  the  like. 
So  you  ’ll  watch  them  well.  Some  dozen  things  I ’ve 
left  to  Yiola ; I ’ve  named  them  to  my  mother.  I ’ve 
given  her  that  blue  and  silver;  it  was  meant  for 
her ; I wore  it  only  once,  I looked  ill  in  it.  But  the 
rest  are  to  be  sacredly  kept  for  this  little  innocent. 
It ’s  such  a providence  that  she  should  be  my  color ; 
she  can  wear  my  gowns ; she  has  her  mother’s  eyes. 
You  know  the  same  fashions  come  back  every  twenty 
years.  She  can  wear  my  gowns  as  they  are.  They  ’ll 
lie  there  quietly  waiting  till  she  grows  into  them, — 
wrapped  in  camphor  and  rose-leaves,  and  keeping 
their  colors  in  the  sweet-scented  darkness.  She  shall 
have  black  hair,  she  shall  wear  my  carnation  satin. 
Do  you  promise  me,  Arthur  ? ” 

“ Promise  you  what,  dearest  ? ” 

“ Promise  me  to  keep  your  poor  little  wife’s  old 
gowns.” 

“ Are  you  afraid  I ’ll  sell  them  ? ” 

“ No,  but  that  they  may  get  scattered.  My  mother 
will  have  them  properly  wrapped  up,  and  you  shall 
lay  them  away  under  a double-lock.  Do  you  know 
the  great  chest  in  the  attic,  with  the  iron  bands  ? 
There’s  no  end  to  what  it  will  hold.  You  can  lay 
them  all  there.  My  mother  and  the  housekeeper  will 


352  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

do  it,  and  give  you  the  key.  And  you  ’ll  keep  the  key 
in  your  secretary,  and  never  give  it  to  any  one  but 
your  child.  Do  you  promise  me  ? ” 

“ Ah,  yes,  I promise  you,”  said  Lloyd,  puzzled  at  the 
intensity  with  which  his  wife  appeared  to  cling  to  this 
idea. 

“ Will  you  swear  ? ” repeated  Perdita. 

“ Yes,  I swear.” 

“Well  — I trust  you  — I trust  you,”  said  the  poor 
lady,  looking  into  his  eyes  with  eyes  in  which,  if  he 
had  suspected  her  vague  apprehensions,  he  might  have 
read  an  appeal  quite  as  much  as  an  assurance. 

Lloyd  bore  his  bereavement  soberly  and  manfully. 
A month  after  his  wife’s  death,  in  the  course  of 
commerce,  circumstances  arose  which  offered  him  an 
opportunity  of  going  to  England.  He  embraced  it 
as  a diversion  from  gloomy  thoughts.  He  was  absent 
nearly  a year,  during  which  his  little  girl  was  ten- 
derly nursed  and  cherished  by  her  grandmother.  On 
his  return  he  had  his  house  again  thrown  open,  and 
announced  his  intention  of  keeping  the  same  state  as 
during  his  wife’s  lifetime.  It  very  soon  came  to  be 
predicted  that  he  would  marry  again,  and  there  were 
at  least  a dozen  young  women  of  whom  one  may  say 
that  it  was  by  no  fault  of  theirs  that,  for  six  months 
after  his  return,  the  prediction  did  not  come  true. 
During  this  interval  he  still  left  his  little  daughter 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  353 


in  Mrs.  Willoughby’s  hands,  the  latter  assuring  him 
that  a change  of  residence  at  so  tender  an  age  was 
perilous  to  her  health.  Finally,  however,  he  declared 
that  his  heart  longed  for  his  daughter’s  presence,  and 
that  she  must  be  brought  up  to  town.  He  sent  his 
coach  and  his  housekeeper  to  fetch  her  home.  Mrs. 
Willoughby  was  in  terror  lest  something  should  befall 
her  on  the  road ; and,  in  accordance  with  this  feeling, 
Yiola  offered  to  ride  along  with  her.  She  could  return 
the  next  day.  So  she  went  up  to  town  with  her  lit- 
tle niece,  and  Mr.  Lloyd  met  her  on  the  threshold  of 
his  house,  overcome  with  her  kindness  and  with  grati- 
tude. Instead  of  returning  the  next  day,  Yiola  stayed 
out  the  week ; and  when  at  last  she  reappeared,  she 
had  only  come  for  her  clothes.  Arthur  would  not  hear 
of  her  coming  home,  nor  would  the  baby.  She  cried 
and  moaned  if  Yiola  left  her ; and  at  the  sight  of  her 
grief  Arthur  lost  his  wits,  and  swore  that  she  was 
going  to  die.  In  fine,  nothing  would  suit  them  but 
that  Yiola  should  remain  until  the  poor  child  had 
grown  used  to  strange  faces. 

It  took  two  months  to  bring  this  consummation 
about;  for  it  was  not  until  this  period  had  elapsed 
that  Yiola  took  leave  of  her  brother-in-law.  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby had  shaken  her  head  over  her  daughter’s  ab- 
sence ; she  had  declared  that  it  was  not  becoming,  and 
that  it  was  the  talk  of  the  town.  She  had  reconciled 


w 


354  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

herself  to  it  only  because,  during  the  young  girl’s  visit, 
the  household  enjoyed  an  unwonted  term  of  peace. 
Bernard  Willoughby  had  brought  his  wife  home  to 
live,  between  whom  and  her  sister-in-law  there  existed 
a bitter  hostility.  Viola  was  perhaps  no  angel ; but 
in  the  daily  practice  of  lffbshe  was  a sufficiently  good- 
natured  girl,  and  if  she  quarrelled  with  Mrs.  Bernard, 
it  was  not  without  provocation.  Quarrel,  however,  she 
did,  to  the  great  annoyance  not  only  of  her  antagonist, 
but  of  the  two  spectators  of  these  constant  altercations. 
Her  stay  in  the  household  of  her  brother-in-law,  there- 
fore, would  have  been  delightful,  if  only  because  it 
removed  her  from  contact  with  the  object  of  her  an- 
tipathy at  home.  It  was  doubly  — it  was  ten  times  — 
delightful,  in  that  it  kept  her  near  the.  object  of  her 
old  passion.  Mrs.  Lloyd’s  poignant  mistrust  had  fallen 
very  far  short  of  the  truth.  Viola’s  sentiment  had 
been  a passion  at  first,  and  a passion  it  remained, — 
a passion  of  whose  radiant  heat,  tempered  to  the  deli- 
cate state  of  his  feelings,  Mr.  Lloyd  very  soon  felt  the 
influence.  Lloyd,  as  I have  hinted,  was  not  a modern 
Petrarch  ; it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  practise  an  ideal 
constancy.  He  had  not  been  many  days  in  the  house 
with  his  sister-in-law  before  he  began  to  assure  him- 
self that  she  was,  in  the  language  of  that  day,  a devil- 
ish fine  woman.  Whether  Viola  really  practised  those 
insidious  arts  that  her  sister  had  been  tempted  to  im- 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  355 


pute  to  her  it  is  needless  to  inquire.  It  is  enough  to 
say  that  she  found  means  to  appear  to  the  very  best 
advantage.  She  used  to  seat  herself  every  morning  be- 
fore the  great  fireplace  in  the  dining-room,  at  work 
upon  a piece  of  tapestry,  with  her  little  niece  disport- 
ing herself  on  the  carpet  at  her  feet,  or  on  the  train  of 
her  dress,  and  playing  with  her  woollen  balls.  Lloyd 
would  have  been  a very  stupid  fellow  if  he  had  re- 
mained insensible  to  the  rich  suggestions  of  this  charm- 
ing picture.  He  was  prodigiously  fond  of  his  little  girl, 
and  was  never  weary  of  taking  her  in  his  arms  and 
tossing  her  up  and  down,  and  making  her  crow  with 
delight.  Very  often,  however,  he  would  venture  upon 
greater  liberties  than  the  young  lady  was  yet  prepared 
to  allow,  and  she  would  suddenly  vociferate  her  dis- 
pleasure. Viola  would  then  drop  her  tapestry,  and 
put  out  her  handsome  hands  with  the  serious  smile  of 
the  young  girl  whose  virgin  fancy  has  revealed  to  her 
all  a mother  s healing  arts.  Lloyd  would  give  up  the 
child,  their  eyes  would  meet,  their  hands  would  touch, 
and  Viola  would  extinguish  the  little  girl’s  sobs  upon 
the  snowy  folds  of  the  kerchief  that  crossed  her  bosom. 
Her  dignity  was  perfect,  and  nothing  could  be  more 
discreet  than  the  manner  in  which  she  accepted  her 
brother-in-law’s  hospitality.  It  may  be  almost  said, 
perhaps,  that  there  was  something  harsh  in  her  re- 
serve. Lloyd  had  a provoking  feeling  that  she  was 


356  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

in  the  house,  and  yet  that  she  was  unapproachable. 
Half  an  hour  after  supper,  at  the  very  outset  of  the 
long  winter  evenings,  she  would  light  her  candle, 
and  make  the  young  man  a most  respectful  curtsey, 
and  march  off  to  bed.  If  these  were  arts,  Viola  was 
a great  artist.  But  their  effect  was  so  gentle,  so 
gradual,  they  were  calculated  to  work  upon  the  young 
widower’s  fancy  with  such  a finely  shaded  crescendo, 
that,  as  the  reader  has  seen,  several  weeks  elapsed 
before  Viola  began  to  feel  sure  that  her  return  would 
cover  her  outlay.  When  this  became  morally  cer- 
tain, she  packed  up  her  trunk,  and  returned  to  her 
mother’s  house.  For  three  days  she  waited;  on  the 
fourth  Mr.  Lloyd  made  his  appearance,  — a respect- 
ful but  ardent  suitor.  Viola  heard  him  out  with 
great  humility,  and  accepted  him  with  infinite  mod- 
esty. It  is  hard  to  imagine  that  Mrs.  Lloyd  should 
have  forgiven  her  husband ; but  if  anything  might 
have  disarmed  her  resentment,  it  would  have  been 
the  ceremonious  continence  of  this  interview.  Viola 
imposed  upon  her  lover  but  a short  probation.  They 
were  married,  as  was  becoming,  with  great  privacy, 
— almost  with  secrecy,  — in  the  hope  perhaps,  as  was 
waggishly  remarked  at  the  time,  that  the  late  Mrs. 
Lloyd  would  n’t  hear  of  it. 

The  marriage  was  to  all  appearance  a happy  one, 
and  each  party  obtained  what  each  had  desired  — 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  357 


Lloyd  “a  devilish  fine  woman,”  and  Viola  — but  Vi- 
ola’s desires,  as  the  reader  will  have  observed,  have 
remained  a good  deal  of  a mystery.  There  were, 
indeed,  two  blots  upon  their  felicity ; but  time  would, 
perhaps,  efface  them.  During  the  first  three  years 
of  her  marriage  Mrs.  Lloyd  failed  to  become  a 
mother,  and  her  husband  on  his  side  suffered  heavy 
losses  of  money.  This  latter  circumstance  compelled 
a material  retrenchment  in  his  expenditure,  and  Vi- 
ola was  perforce  less  of  a great  lady  than  her  sister 
had  been.  She  contrived,  however,  to  sustain  with 
unbroken  consistency  the  part  of  an  elegant  woman, 
although  it  must  be  confessed  that  it  required  the 
exercise  of  more  ingenuity  than  belongs  to  your  real 
aristocratic  repose.  She  had  long  since  ascertained  that 
her  sister’s  immense  wardrobe  had  been  sequestrated 
for  the  benefit  of  her  daughter,  and  that  it  lay  lan- 
guishing in  thankless  gloom  in  the  dusty  attic.  It 
was  a revolting  thought  that  these  exquisite  fabrics 
should  await  the  commands  of  a little  girl  who  sat 
in  a high  chair  and  ate  bread-and-milk  with  a wooden 
spoon.  Viola  had  the  good  taste,  however,  to  say 
nothing  about  the  matter  until  several  months  had 
expired.  Then,  at  last,  she  timidly  broached  it  to  her 
husband.  .Was  it  not  a pity  that  so  much  finery 
should  be  lost  ? — for  lost  it  would  be,  what  with  col- 
ors fading,  and  moths  eating  it  up,  and  the  change 


358  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

of  fashions.  But  Lloyd  gave  so  abrupt  and  peremp- 
tory a negative  to  her  inquiry,  that  she  saw  that 
for  the  present  her  attempt  was  vain.  Six  months 
went  by,  however,  and  brought  with  them  new  needs 
and  new  fancies.  Viola’s  thoughts  hovered  lovingly 
about  her  sister’s  relics.  She  went  up  and  looked 
at  the  chest  in  which  they  lay  imprisoned.  There 
was  a sullen  defiance  in  its  three  great  padlocks 
and  its  iron  bands,  which  only  quickened  her  de- 
sires. There  was  something  exasperating  in  its  incor- 
ruptible immobility.  It  was  like  a grim  and  grizzled 
old  household  servant,  who  locks  his  jaws  over  a 
family  secret.  And  then  there  was  a look  of  capacity 
in  its  vast  extent,  and  a sound  as  of  dense  fulness, 
when  Viola  knocked  its  side  with  the  toe  of  her  little 
slipper,  which  caused  her  to  flush  with  baffled  longing. 
“ It ’s  absurd,”  she  cried ; “ it ’s  improper,  it ’s  wick- 
ed ” ; and  she  forthwith  resolved  upon  another  attack 
upon  her  husband.  On  the  following  day,  after  din- 
ner, when  he  had  had  his  wine,  she  bravely  began  it. 
But  he  cut  her  short  with  great  sternness. 

“Once  for  all,  Viola,”  said  he,  “it’s  out  of  the 
question.  I shall  be  gravely  displeased  if  you  re- 
turn to  the  matter.” 

“ Very  good,”  said  Viola.  “ I ’m  glad  to  learn  the 
value  at  which  I’m  held.  Great  Heaven!”  she 
cried,  “I’m  a happy  woman.  It ’s  an  agreeable 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  359 


thing  to  feel  one’s  self  sacrificed  to  a caprice ! ” 
And  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  anger  and  disap- 
pointment. 

Lloyd  had  a good-natured  man’s  horror  of  a woman’s 
sobs,  and  he  attempted  — I may  say  he  condescend- 
ed — to  explain.  “ It ’s  not  a caprice,  dear,  it ’s  a 
promise,”  he  said,  — “an  oath.” 

“ An  oath  ? It ’s  a pretty  matter  for  oaths  ! and 
to  whom,  pray  ? ” 

“ To  Perdita,”  said  the  young  man,  raising  his  eyes 
for  an  instant,  hut  immediately  dropping  them. 

“ Perdita,  — ah,  Perdita  ! ’ and  Viola’s  tears  broke 
forth.  Her  bosom  heaved  with  stormy  sobs, — -sobs 
which  were  the  long-deferred  counterpart  of  the 
violent  fit  of  weeping  in  which  she  had  indulged 
herself  on  the  night  when  she  discovered  her  sis- 
ter’s betrothal.  She  had  hoped,  in  her  better  mo- 
ments, that  she  had  done  with  her  jealousy ; but  her 
temper,  on  that  occasion,  had  taken  an  ineffaceable 
fold.  “ And  pray,  what  right,”  she  cried,  “ had  Per- 
dita to  dispose  of  my  future  ? What  right  had  she  to 
bind  you  to  meanness  and  cruelty  ? Ah,  I occupy  a 
dignified  place,  and  I make  a very  fine  figure  ! I ’m 
welcome  to  what  Perdita  has  left ! And  what  has  she 
left  ? I never  knew  till  now  how  little ! Nothing, 
nothing,  nothing.” 

This  was  very  poor  logic,  but  it  was  very  good  pas- 


360  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

sion.  Lloyd  put  his  arm  around  his  wife’s  waist  and 
tried  to  kiss  her,  but  she  shook  him  off  with  mag- 
nificent scorn.  Poor  fellow  ! he  had  coveted  a “ devil- 
ish fine  woman/’  and  he  had  got  one.  Her  scorn  was 
intolerable.  He  walked  away  with  his  ears  ting- 
ling, — irresolute,  distracted.  Before  him  was  his 
secretary,  and  in  it  the  sacred  key  which  with  his 
own  hand  he  had  turned  in  the  triple  lock.  He 
marched  up  and  opened  it,  and  took  the  key  from  a 
secret  drawer,  wrapped  in  a little  packet  which  he 
had  sealed  with  his  own  honest  bit  of  blazonry. 
Teneoy  said  the  motto,  — “I  hold.”  But  he  was 
ashamed  to  put  it  back.  He  flung  it  upon  the  table 
beside  his  wife. 

“ Keep  it ! ” she  cried.  “ I want  it  not.  I hate  it ! ” 

“ I wash  my  hands  of  it,”  cried  her  husband.  “ God 
forgive  me ! ” 

Mrs.  Lloyd  gave  an  indignant  shrug  of  her  shoul- 
ders, and  swept  out  of  the  room,  while  the  young 
man  retreated  by  another  door.  Ten  minutes  later 
Mrs.  Lloyd  returned,  and  found  the  room  occupied 
by  her  little  step-daughter  and  the  nursery-maid. 
The  key  was  not  on  the  table.  She  glanced  at  the 
child.  The  child  was  perched  on  a chair  with  the 
packet  in  her  hands.  She  had  broken  the  seal  with 
her  own  little  fingers.  Mrs.  Lloyd  hastily  took  pos- 
session of  the  key. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES.  361 


At  the  habitual  supper-hour  Arthur  Lloyd  came 
back  from  his  counting-room.  It  was  the  month  of 
June,  and  supper  was  served  by  daylight.  The  meal 
was  placed  on  the  table,  but  Mrs.  Lloyd  failed  to 
make  her  appearance.  The  servant  whom  his  master 
sent  to  call  her  came  back  with  the  assurance  that 
her  room  was  empty,  and  that  the  women  informed 
him  that  she  had  not  been  seen  since  dinner.  They 
had  in  truth  observed  her  to  have  been  in  tears,  and, 
supposing  her  to  be  shut  up  in  her  chamber,  had  not 
disturbed  her.  Her  husband  called  her  name  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  house,  but  without  response.  At  last 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  find  her  by  taking 
the  way  to  the  attic.  The  thought  gave  him  a strange 
feeling  of  discomfort,  and  he  bade  his  servants  remain 
behind,  wishing  no  witness  in  his  quest.  He  reached 
the  foot  of  the  staircase  leading  to  the  topmost  flat, 
and  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  banisters,  pronouncing 
his  wife’s  name.  His  voice  trembled.  He  called 
again,  louder  and  more  firmly.  The  only  sound  which 
disturbed  the  absolute  silence  was  a faint  echo  of  his 
own  tones,  repeating  his  question  under  the  great 
eaves.  He  nevertheless  felt  irresistibly  moved  to 
ascend  the  staircase.  It  opened  upon  a wide  hall, 
lined  with  wooden  closets,  and  terminating  in  a win- 
dow which  looked  westward,  and  admitted  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun.  Before  the  window  stood  the  great 


362  THE  ROMANCE  OF  CERTAIN  OLD  CLOTHES. 

chest.  Before  the  chest,  on  her  knees,  the  young  man 
saw  with  amazement  and  horror  the  figure  of  his  wife. 
In  an  instant  he  crossed  the  interval  "between  them, 
bereft  of  utterance.  The  lid  of  the  chest  stood  open, 
exposing,  amid  their  perfumed  napkins,  its  treasure 
of  stuff's  and  jewels.  Viola  had  fallen  backward  from 
a kneeling  posture,  with  one  hand  supporting  her  on 
the  floor  and  the  other  pressed  to  her  heart.  On  her 
limbs  was  the  stiffness  of  death,  and  on  her  face,  in 
the  fading  light  of  the  sun,  the  terror  of  something 
more  than  death.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  entreaty, 
in  dismay,  in  agony ; and  on  her  bloodless  brow  and 
cheeks  there  glowed  the  marks  of  ten  hideous  wounds 
from  two  vengeful  ghostly  hands. 


Madame  de  Mauves. 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


i. 


HE  view  from  the  terrace  at  Saint-Germain-en- 


-L  Laye  is  immense  and  famous.  Paris  lies  spread 
before  you  in  dusky  vastness,  domed  and  fortified, 
glittering  here  and  there  through  her  light  vapors,  and 
girdled  with  her  silver  Seine.  Behind  you  is  a park 
of  stately  symmetry,  and  behind  that  a forest,  where 
you  may  lounge  through  turfy  avenues  and  light- 
checkered  glades,  and  quite  forget  that  you  are  within 
half  an  hour  of  the  boulevards.  One  afternoon,  how- 
ever, in  mid-spring,  some  five  years  ago,  a young  man 
seated  on  the  terrace  had  chosen  not  to  forget  this. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  in  idle  wistfulness  on  the  mighty 
human  hive  before  him.  He  was  fond  of  rural  things, 
and  he  had  come  to  Saint-Germain  a week  before  to 
meet  the  spring  half-way ; but  though  he  could  boast 
of  a six  months’  acquaintance  with  the  great  city,  he 
never  looked  at  it  from  his  present  standpoint  without 
a feeling  of  painfully  unsatisfied  curiosity.  There  were 


366 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


moments  when  it  seemed  to  him  that  not  to  he  there 
just  then  was  to  miss  some  thrilling  chapter  of  ex- 
perience. And  yet  his  winter’s  experience  had  been 
rather  fruitless,  and  he  had  closed  the  book  almost 
with  a yawn.  Though  not  in  the  least  a cynic,  he 
was  what  one  may  call  a disappointed  observer ; and 
he  never  chose  the  right-hand  road  without  beginning 
to  suspect  after  an  hour’s  wayfaring  that  the  left  would 
have  been  the  interesting  one.  He  now  had  a dozen 
minds  to  go  to  Paris  for  the  evening,  to  dine  at  the 
Caf4  Brebant,  and  to  repair  afterwards  to  the  Gymnase 
and  listen  to  the  latest  exposition  of  the  duties  of  the 
injured  husband.  He  would  probably  have  risen  to 
execute  this  project,  if  he  had  not  observed  a little 
girl  who,  wandering  along  the  terrace,  had  suddenly 
stopped  short  and  begun  to  gaze  at  him  with  round- 
eyed frankness.  For  a moment  he  was  simply  amused, 
for  the  child’s  face  denoted  helpless  wonderment ; the 
next  he  was  agreeably  surprised.  “Why,  this  is  my 
friend  Maggie,”  he  said ; “ I see  you  have  not  forgot- 
ten me.” 

Maggie,  after  a short  parley,  was  induced  to  seal 
her  remembrance  with  a kiss.  Invited  then  to  explain 
her  appearance  at  Saint-Germain,  she  embarked  on  a 
recital  in  which  the  general,  according  to  the  infantine 
method,  was  so  fatally  sacrificed  to  the  particular,  that 
Longmore  looked  about  him  for  a superior  source  of 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


367 


information.  He  found  it  in  Maggie’s  mamma,  wlio 
was  seated  with  another  lady  at  the  opposite  end  of 
the  terrace ; so,  taking  the  child  by  the  hand,  he  led 
her  back  to  her  companions. 

Maggie’s  mamma  was  a young  American  lady,  as 
you  would  immediately  have  perceived,  with  a pretty 
and  friendly  face  and  an  expensive  spring  toilet.  She 
greeted  Longmore  with  surprised  cordiality,  mentioned 
his  name  to  her  friend,  and  bade  him  bring  a chair 
and  sit  with  them.  The  other  lady,  who,  though 
equally  young  and  perhaps  even  prettier,  was  dressed 
more  soberly,  remained  silent,  stroking  the  hair  of  the 
little*  girl,  whom  she  had  drawn  against  her  knee. 
She  had  never  heard  of  Longmore,  but  she  now  per- 
ceived that  her  companion  had  crossed  the  ocean  with 
him,  had  met  him  afterwards  in  travelling,  and  (having 
left  her  husband  in  Wall  Street)  was  indebted  to  him 
for  various  small  services. 

Maggie’s  mamma  turned  from  time  to  time  and 
smiled  at  her  friend  with  an  air  of  invitation ; the 
latter  smiled  back,  and  continued  gracefully  to  say 
nothing. 

For  ten  minutes  Longmore  felt  a revival  of  interest 
in  his  interlocutress ; then  (as  riddles  are  more  amus- 
ing than  commonplaces)  it  gave  way  to  curiosity  about 
her  friend.  His  eyes  wandered ; her  volubility  was 
less  suggestive  than  the  latter’s  silence. 


368 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


/ The  stranger  was  perhaps  not  obviously  a beauty 
nor  obviously  an  American,  but  essentially  both,  on  a 
closer  scrutiny.  She  was  slight  and  fair,  and,  though 
naturally  pale,  delicately  flushed,  apparently  with  re- 
cent excitement.  What  chiefly  struck  Longmore  in 
her  face  was  the  unton  of  a pair  of  beautifully  gentle, 
almost  languid  gray  eyes,  with  a mouth  peculiarly  ex- 
pressive and  firm.  Her  forehead  was  a trifle  more 
expansive  than  belongs  to  classic  types,  and  her  thick 
brown  hair  was  dressed  out  of  the  fashion,  which  was 
just  then  very  ugly.  Her  throat  and  bust  were 
slender,  but  all  the  more  in  harmony  with  certain 
rapid,  charming  movements  of  the  head,  which  she 
had  a way  of  throwing  back  every  now  and  then,  with 
an  air  of  attention  and  a sidelong  glance  from  her 
dove-like  eyes.  She  seemed  at  once  alert  and  indif- 
ferent, contemplative  and  restless ; and  Longmore  very 
soon  discovered  that  if  she  was  not  a brilliant  beauty, 
she  was  at  least  an  extremely  interesting  one.  This 
very  impression  made  him  magnanimous.  He  per- 
ceived that  he  had  interrupted  a confidential  conver- 
sation, and  he  judged  it  discreet  to  withdraw,  having 
first  learned  from  Maggie’s  mamma  — Mrs.  Draper  — 
that  she  was  to  take  the  six-o’clock  train  back  to 
Paris.  He  promised  to  meet  her  at  the  station. 

He  kept  his  appointment,  and  Mrs.  Draper  arrived 
betimes,  accompanied  by  her  friend.  The  latter,  how- 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


369 


ever,  made  her  farewells  at  the  door  and  drove  away 
again,  giving  Longmore  time  only  to  raise  his  hat. 
“ Who  is  she  ? ” he  asked  with  visible  ardor,  as  he 
brought  Mrs.  Draper  her  tickets. 

“ Come  and  see  me  to-morrow  at  the  Hotel  de 
rEmpire,”  she  answered,  “ and  I will  tell  you  all  about 
her.”  The  force  of  this  offer  in  making  him  punctual 
at  the  Hotel  de  l’Empire  Longmore  doubtless  never 
exactly  measured  ; and  it  wTas  perhaps  well  that  he  did 
not,  for  he  found  his  friend,  who  was  on  the  point  of 
leaving  Paris,  so  distracted  by  procrastinating  milliners 
and  perjured  lingeres  that  she  had  no  wits  left  for  dis- 
interested narrative.  “You  must  find  Saint-Germain 
dreadfully  dull,”  she  said,  as  he  was  going.  “Why 
won’t  you  come  with  me  to  London  ? ” 

“ Introduce  me  to  Madame  de  Mauves,”  he  answered, 
“ and  Saint-Germain  will  satisfy  me.”  All  he  had 
learned  was  the  lady’s  name  and  residence. 

“ Ah  ! she,  poor  woman,  will  not  make  Saint-Ger- 
main cheerful  for  you.  She’s  very  unhappy.” 

Longmore’s  further  inquiries  were  arrested  by  the 
arrival  of  a young  lady  with  a bandbox ; but  he  went 
away  with  the  promise  of  a note  of  introduction,  to  be 
immediately  despatched  to  him  at  Saint-Germain. 

He  waited  a week,  but  the  note  never  came ; and  he 
declared  that  it  was  not  for  Mrs.  Draper  to  complain 
of  her  milliner’s  treachery.  He  lounged  on  the  terrace 
16* 


x 


370 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


and  walked  in  the  forest,  studied  suburban  street  life, 
and  made  a languid  attempt  to  investigate  the  records 
of  the  court  of  the  exiled  Stuarts ; but  he  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  wondering  where  Madame  de  Mauves 
lived,  and  whether  she  never  walked  on  the  terrace. 
Sometimes,  he  finally  discovered;  for  one  afternoon 
toward  dusk  he  perceived  her  leaning  against  the  para- 
pet, alone.  In  his  momentary  hesitation  to  approach 
her,  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  almost  a shade  of 
trepidation ; but  his  curiosity  was  not  diminished  by 
the  consciousness  of  this  result  of  a quarter  of  an  hour’s 
acquaintance.  She  immediately  recognized  him  on  his 
drawing  near,  with  the  manner  of  a person  unaccus- 
tomed to  encounter  a confusing  variety  of  faces.  Her 
dress,  her  expression,  were  the  same  as  before ; her 
charm  was  there,  like  that  of  sweet  music  on  a second 
hearing.  She  soon  made  conversation  easy  by  asking 
him  for  news  of  Mrs.  Draper.  Longmore  told  her  that 
he  was  daily  expecting  news,  and,  after  a pause,  men- 
tioned the  promised  note  of  introduction. 

“ It  seems  less  necessary  now,”  he  said  — “ for  me, 
at  least.  But  for  you  — I should  have  liked  you  to 
know  the  flattering  things  Mrs.  Draper  would  probably 
have  said  about  me.” 

“ If  it  arrives  at  last,”  she  answered,  “ you  must 
come  and  see  me  and  bring  it.  If  it  docs  n’t,  you  must 
come  without  it.” 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


371 


Then,  as  she  continued  to  linger  in  spite  of  the  thick- 
ening twilight,  she  explained  that  she  was  waiting  for 
her  husband,  who  was  to  arrive  in  the  train  from  Paris, 
and  who  often  passed  along  the  terrace  on  his  way 
home.  Longmore  well  remembered  that  Mrs.  Draper 
had  pronounced  her  unhappy,  and  he  found  it  con- 
venient to  suppose  that  this  same  husband  made  her 
so.  Edified  by  his  six  months  in  Paris  — “ What  else 
is  possible,”  he  asked  himself,  “ for  a sweet  American 
girl  who  marries  an  unclean  Frenchman  ? ” 

But  this  tender  expectancy  of  her  lord’s  return  un- 
dermined his  hypothesis,  and  it  received  a further 
check  from  the  gentle  eagerness  with  which  she  turned 
and  greeted  an  approaching  figure.  Longmore  beheld 
in  the  fading  light  a stoutish  gentleman,  on  the  fair 
side  of  forty,  in  a high  light  hat,  whose  countenance, 
indistinct  against  the  sky,  was  adorned  by  a fantasti- 
cally pointed  mustache.  M.  de  Mauves  saluted  his 
wife  with  punctilious  gallantry,  and  having  bowed  to 
Longmore,  asked  her  several  questions  in  French.  Be- 
fore taking  his  proffered  arm  to  walk  to  their  carriage, 
which  was  in  waiting  at  the  terrace  gate,  she  intro- 
duced our  hero  as  a friend  of  Mrs.  Draper,  and  a fellow- 
countryman,  whom  she  hoped  to  see  at  home.  M.  de 
Mauves  responded  briefly,  but  civilly,  in  very  fair  Eng- 
lish, and  led  his  wife  away. 

Longmore  watched  him  as  he  went,  twisting  his 


372 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


picturesque  mustache,  with  a feeling  of  irritation  which 
he  certainly  would  have  been  at  a loss  to  account  for. 
The  only  conceivable  cause  was  the  light  which  M.  de 
Mauves’s  good  English  cast  upon  his  own  bad  French. 
For  reasons  involved  apparently  in  the  very  structure 
of  his  being,  Longmore  found  himself  unable  to  speak 
the  language  tolerably.  He  admired  and  enjoyed  it, 
but  the  very  genius  of  awkwardness  controlled  his 
phraseology.  But  he  reflected  with  satisfaction  that 
Madame  de  Mauves  and  he  had  a common  idiom,  and 
his  vexation  was  effectually  dispelled  by  his  finding  on 
his  table  that  evening  a letter  from  Mrs.  Draper.  It 
enclosed  a short,  formal  missive  to  Madame  de  Mauves, 
but  the  epistle  itself  was  copious  and  confidential. 
She  had  deferred  writing  till  she  reached  London, 
where  for  a week,  of  course,  she  had  found  other 
amusements. 

“ I think  it  is  these  distracting  Englishwomen,”  she 
wTrote,  “ with  their  green  barege  gowns  and  their  white- 
stitched  boots,  who  have  reminded  me  in  self-defence 
of  my  graceful  friend  at  Saint-Germain  and  my 
promise  to  introduce  you  to  her.  I believe  I told  you 
that  she  was  unhappy,  and  I wondered  afterwards 
whether  I had  not  been  guilty  of  a breach  of  confi- 
dence. But  you  would  have  found  it  out  for  yourself, 
and  besides,  she  toll  me  no  secrets.  She  declared 
she  was  the  happiest  creature  in  the  world,  and  then, 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


373 


poor  thing,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  I prayed  to  be 
delivered  from  such  happiness.  It ’s  the  miserable 
story  of  an  American  girl,  born  to  be  neither  a slave 
nor  a toy,  marrying  a profligate  Frenchman,  who  be- 
lieves that  a woman  must  be  one  or  the  other.  The 
silliest  American  woman  is  too  good  for  the  best  for- 
eigner, and  the  poorest  of  us  have  moral  needs  a 
Frenchman  cant  appreciate.  She  was  romantic  and 
wilful,  and  thought  Americans  were  vulgar.  Matri- 
monial felicity  perhaps  is  vulgar  ; but  I think  nowa- 
days she  wishes  she  were  a little  less  elegant.  M.  de 
Mauves  cared,  of  course,  for  nothing  but  her  money, 
which  he  ’s  spending  royally  on  his  menus  plctisirs . I 
hope  you  appreciate  the  compliment  I pay  you  when 
I recommend  you  to  go  and  console  an  unhappy  wife. 
I have  never  given  a man  such  a proof  of  esteem,  and 
if  you  were  to  disappoint  me  I should  renounce  the 
world.  Prove  to  Madame  de  Mauves  that  an  Ameri- 
can friend  may  mingle  admiration  and  respect  better 
than  a French  husband.  She  avoids  society  and  lives 
quite  alone,  seeing  no  one  but  a horrible  French  sis- 
ter-in-law. Do  let  me  hear  that  you  have  drawn 
some  of  the  sadness  from  that  desperate  smile  of  hers. 
Make  her  smile  with  a good  conscience.” 

These  zealous  admonitions  left  Longmore  slightly 
disturbed.  He  found  himself  on  the  edge  of  a domes- 
tic tragedy  from  which  he  instinctively  recoiled.  To 


374 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


call  upon  Madame  de  Mauves  with  his  present  knowl- 
edge seemed  a sort  of  fishing  in  troubled  waters.  He 
was  a modest  man,  and  yet  he  asked  himself  whether 
the  effect  of  his  attentions  might  not  be  to  add  to  her 
tribulation.  A flattering  sense  of  unwonted  opportu- 
nity, however,  made  him,  with  the  lapse  of  time,  more 
confident,  — possibly  more  reckless.  It  seemed  a very 
inspiring  idea  to  draw  the  sadness  from  his  fair  coun- 
trywoman’s smile,  and  at  least  he  hoped  to  persuade 
her  that  there  was  such  a thing  as  an  agreeable  Ameri- 
can. He  immediately  called  upon  her. 


II. 


HE  had  been  placed  for  her  education,  fourteen 


KD  years  before,  in  a Parisian  convent,  by  a widowed 
mamma,  fonder  of  Homburg  and  Nice  than  of  letting 
out  tucks  in  the  frocks  of  a vigorously  growing  daughter. 
Here,  besides  various  elegant  accomplishments, — the  art 
of  wearing  a train,  of  composing  a bouquet,  of  present- 
ing a cup  of  tea,  — she  acquired  a certain  turn  of  the 
imagination  which  might  have  passed  for  a sign  of 
precocious  worldliness.  She  dreamed  of  marrying  a 
title,  — not  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  herself  called 
Mme.  la  Vicomtesse  (for  which  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  should  never  greatly  care),  but  because  she  had 
a romantic  belief  that  the  best  birth  is  the  guaranty 
of  an  ideal  delicacy  of  feeling.  Eomances  are  rarely 
shaped  in  such  perfect  good  faith,  and  Euphemia’s 
excuse  was  in  the  radical  purity  of  her  imagination.  - 
She  was  profoundly  incorruptible,  and  she  cherished 
this  pernicious  conceit  as  if  it  had  been  a dogma 
revealed  by  a white-winged  angel.  Even  after  expe- 
rience had  given  her  a hundred  rude  hints,  she  found 
it  easier  to  believe  in  fables,  when  they  had  a certain 


376 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


nobleness  of  meaning,  than  in  well-attested  but  sordid 
facts.  She  believed  that  a gentleman  with  a long 
pedigree  must  be  of  necessity  a very  fine  fellow,  and 
that  the  consciousness  of  a picturesque  family  tradi- 
tion imparts  an  exquisite  tone  to  the  character.  No- 
blesse oblige , she  thought,  as  regards  yourself,  and 
insures,  as  regards  your  wife.  She  had  never  spoken 
to  a nobleman  in  her  life,  and  these  convictions  were 
but  a matter  of  transcendent  theory.  They  were  the 
fruit,  in  part,  of  the  perusal  of  various  ultramontane 
works  of  fiction  — the  only  ones  admitted  to  the  con- 
vent library  — in  which  the  hero  was  always  a legiti- 
mist vicomte  who  fought  duels  by  the  dozen,  but  went 
twice  a month  to  confession ; and  in  part  of  the  per- 
fumed gossip  of  her  companions,  many  of  them  filles 
de  haut  lieu , who  in  the  convent  garden,  after  Sundays 
at  home,  depicted  their  brothers  and  cousins  as  Prince 
Charmings  and  young  Paladins.  Euphemia  listened 
and  said  nothing;  she  shrouded  her  visions  of  matri- 
mony under  a coronet  in  religious  mystery.  She  was 
not  of  that  type  of  young  lady  who  is  easily  induced 
to  declare  that  her  husband  must  be  six  feet  high  and 
a little  near-sighted,  part  his  hair  in  the  middle,  and 
have  amber  lights  in  his  beard.  To  her  companions 
she  seemed  to  have  a very  pallid  fancy ; and  even  the 
fact  that  she  was  a sprig  of  the  transatlantic  democ- 
racy never  sufficiently  explained  her  apathy  on  social 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


377 


questions.  She  had  a mental  image  of  that  son  of 
the  Crusaders  who  was  to  suffer  her  to  adore  him, 
hut  like  many  an  artist  who  has  produced  a master- 
piece of  idealization,  she  shrank  from  exposing  it  to 
public  criticism.  It  w7as  the  portrait  of  a gentleman 
rather  ugly  than  handsome,  and  rather  poor  than  rich. 
But  his  ugliness  was  to  be  nobly  expressive,  and  his 
poverty  delicately  proud.  Euphemia  had  a fortune  of 
her  own,  which,  at  the  proper  time,  after  fixing  on  her 
in  eloquent  silence  those  fine  eyes  which  were  to 
soften  the  feudal  severity  of  his  visage,  he  was  to 
accept  with  a world  of  stifled  protestations.  One  con- 
dition alone  she  was  to  make,  — that  his  blood  should 
be  of  the  very  finest  strain.  On  this  she  would  stake 
her  happiness. 

It  so  chanced  that  circumstances  were  to  give  con- 
vincing color  to  this  primitive  logic. 

Though  little  of  a talker,  Euphemia  was  an  ardent 
listener,  and  there  were  moments  wrhen  she  fairly  hung 
upon  the  lips  of  Mademoiselle  Marie  de  Mauves.  Her 
intimacy  with  this  chosen  schoolmate  was,  like  most 
intimacies,  based  on  their  points  of  difference.  Mad- 
emoiselle de  Mauves  was  very  positive,  very  shrewd,  j 
very  ironical,  very  French,  — everything  that  Eu- 
phemia felt  herself  unpardonable  in  not  being.  Dur- 
ing her  Sundays  en  ville  she  had  examined  the  world 
and  judged  it,  and  she  imparted  her  impressions  to 


378 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


our  attentive  heroine  with  an  agreeable  mixture  of 
enthusiasm  and  scepticism.  She  was  moreover  a 
handsome  and  well-grown  pefson,  on  whom  Eu- 
phemia’s ribbons  and  trinkets  had  a trick  of  looking 
better  than  on  their  slender  proprietress.  She  had, 
finally,  the  supreme  merit  of  being  a rigorous  exam- 
ple of  the  virtue  of  exalted  birth,  having,  as  she  did, 
ancestors  honorably  mentioned  by  Joinville  and  Corn- 
mines,  and  a stately  grandmother  with  a hooked  nose, 
who  came  up  with  her  after  the  holidays  from  a ver- 
itable castel  in  Auvergne.  It  seemed  to  Euphemia 
that  these  attributes  made  her  friend  more  at  home 
in  the  world  than  if  she  had  been  the  daughter  of 
even  the  most  prosperous  grocer.  A certain  aristo- 
cratic impudence  Mademoiselle  de  Mauves  abundantly 
possessed,  and  her  raids  among  her  friend's  finery  were 
quite  in  the  spirit  of  her  baronial  ancestors  in  the 
twelfth  century,  — a spirit  which  Euphemia  consid- 
ered but  a large  way  of  understanding  friendship,  — a 
freedom  from  small  deference  to  the  world’s  opinions 
which  would  sooner  or  later  justify  itself  in  acts  of 
surprising  magnanimity.  Mademoiselle  de  Mauves 
perhaps  enjoyed  but  slightly  that  easy  attitude  toward 
society  which  Euphemia  envied  her.  She  proved  her- 
self later  in  life  such  an  accomplished  schemer  that 
her  sense  of  having  further  heights  to  scale  must  have 
awakened  early.  Our  heroine’s  ribbons  and  trinkets 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


379 


had  much  to  do  with  the  other’s  sisterly  patronage, 
and  her  appealing  pliancy  of  character  even  more ; but 
the  concluding  motive  of  Marie’s  writing  to  her  grand- 
mamma to  invite  Euphemia  for  a three  weeks’  holiday 
to  the  castel  in  Auvergne,  involved  altogether  superior 
considerations.  Mademoiselle  de  Mauves  was  indeed 
at  this  time  seventeen  years  of  age,  and  presumably 
capable  of  general  views;  and  Euphemia,  who  was 
hardly  less,  was  a very  well-grown  subject  for  experi- 
ment, besides  being  pretty  enough  almost  to  pre-assure 
success.  It  is  a proof  of  the  sincerity  of  Euphemia’s 
aspirations  that  the  castel  was  not  a shock  to  her  faith. 
It  was  neither  a cheerful  nor  a luxurious  abode,  but 
the  young  girl  found  it  as  delightful  as  a play.  It 
had  battered  towers  and  an  empty  moat,  a rusty  draw- 
bridge and  a court  paved  with  crooked,  grass-grown 
slabs,  over  which  the  antique  coach-wheels  of  the  old 
lady  with  the  hooked  nose  seemed  to  awaken  the 
echoes  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Euphemia  was 
not  frightened  out  of  her  dream ; she  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  it  assume  the  consistency  of  a flattering  pre- 
sentiment. She  had  a taste  for  old  servants,  old 
anecdotes,  old  furniture,  faded  household  colors,  and 
sweetly  stale  odors,  — musty  treasures  in  which  the 
Chateau  de  Mauves  abounded.  She  made  a dozen 
sketches  in  water-colors,  after  her  conventual  pattern ; 
but  sentimentally,  as  one  may  say,  she  was  forever 
sketching  with  a freer  hand. 


330 


MifDAME  DE  MAUYES. 


Old  Madame  de  Mauves  had  nothing  severe  but  her 
nose,  and  she  seemed  to  Euphemia,  as  indeed  she  was, 
a graciously  venerable  relic  of  a historic  order  of  things. 
She  took  a great  fancy  to  the  young  American,  who 
was  ready  to  sit  all  day  at  her  feet  and  listen  to 
anecdotes  of  the  Ion  temps  and  quotations  from  the 
family  chronicles.  Madame  de  Mauves  was  a very 
honest  old  woman,  and  uttered  her  thoughts  with 
antique  plainness.  One  day,  after  pushing  back  Eu- 
pliemia’s  shining  locks  and  blinking  at  her  with  some 
tenderness  from  under  her  spectacles,  she  declared, 
with  an  energetic  shake  of  the  head,  that  she  did  n’t 
know  what  to  make  of  her.  And  in  answer  to  the 
young  girl’s  startled  blush,  — “ I should  like  to  advise 
you,”  she  said,  “ but  you  seem  to  me  so  all  of  a piece 
that  I am  afraid  that  if  I advise  you,  I shall  spoil  you. 
It ’s  easy  to  see  that  you  ’re  not  one  of  us.  I don’t 
know  whether  you  ’re  better,  but  you  seem  to  me  to 
listen  to  the  murmur  of  your  own  young  spirit,  rather 
than  to  the  voice  from  behind  the  confessional  or  to 
the  whisper  of  opportunity.  Young  girls,  in  my  day, 
when  they  were  stupid,  were  very  docile,  but  when 
they  were  clever,  were  very  sly.  You  ’re  clever 
enough,  I imagine,  and  yet  if  I guessed  all  your 
secrets  at  this  moment,  is  there  one  I should  have 
to  frown  at?  I can  tell  you  a wickeder  one  than 
any  you  have  discovered  for  yourself..  If  you  expect 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


381 


to  live  in  France,  and  you  want  to  be  happy,  don’t 
listen  too  hard  to  that  little  voice  I just  spoke  of, — 
the  voice  that  is  neither  the  cure’s  nor  the  world’s. 
You  ’ll  fancy  it  saying  things  that  it  won’t  help  your 
case  to  hear.  They  ’ll  make  you  sad,  and  when  you  ’re 
sad  you  ’ll  grow  plain,  and  when  you  ’re  plain  you  ’ll 
grow  bitter,  and  when  you  ’re  bitter  you  ’ll  be  very 
disagreeable.  I was  brought  up  to  think  that  a f 
woman’s  first  duty  was  to  please,  and  the  happiest 
women  I ’ve  known  have  been  the  ones  who  performed 
this  duty  faithfully.  As  you  ’re  not  a Catholic,  I sup- 
pose you  can’t  be  a devote ; and  if  you  don’t  take  life 
as  a fifty  years’  mass,  the  only  way  to  take  it  is  as  a 
game  of  skill.  Listen:  not  to  lose,  you  must,  — I 
don’t  say  cheat ; but  don’t  be  too  sure  your  neighbor 
won’t,  and  don’t  be  shocked  out  of  your  self-possession 
if  he  does.  Don’t  lose,  my  dear ; I beseech  you,  don’t 
lose.  Be  neither  suspicious  nor  credulous ; but  if  you 
find  your  neighbor  peeping,  don’t  cry  out,  but  very 
politely  wait  your  own  chance.  I ’ve  had  my  revanche 
more  than  once  in  my  day,  but  I ’m  not  sure  that  the 
sweetest  I could  take  against  life  as  a whole  would 


be  to  have  your  blessed  innocence  profit  by  my  expe-  V 
rience.” 

This  was  rather  awful  advice,  but  Euphemia  under- 
stood it  too  little  to  be  either  edified  or  frightened. 
She  sat  listening  to  it  very  much  as  she  would  have 


382 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


listened  to  the  speeches  of  an  old  lady  in  a comedy, 
whose  diction  should  picturesquely  correspond  to  the 
pattern  of  her  mantilla  and  the  fashion  of  her  head- 
dress. Her  indifference  was  doubly  dangerous,  for 
Madame  de  Mauves  spoke  at  the  prompting  of  coming 
events,  and  her  words  were  the  result  of  a somewhat 
troubled  conscience,  — a conscience  which  told  her  at 
once  that  Euphemia  was  too  tender  a victim  to  be 
sacrificed  to  an  ambition,  and  that  the  prosperity  of 
her  house  was  too  precious  a heritage  to  be  sacrificed 
to  a scruple.  The  prosperity  in  question  had  suffered 
repeated  and  grievous  breaches,  and  the  house  of  De 
Mauves  had  been  pervaded  by  the  cold  comfort  of  an 
establishment  in  which  people  were  obliged  to  balance 
dinner-table  allusions  to  feudal  ancestors  against  the 
absence  of  side  dishes ; a state  of  things  the  more 
regrettable  as  the  family  was  now  mainly  represented 
by  a gentleman  whose  appetite  was  large,  and  who 
justly  maintained  that  its  historic  glories  were  not 
established  by  underfed  heroes. 

Three  days  after  Euphemia’s  arrival,  Eichard  de 
Mauves  came  down  from  Paris  to  pay  his  respects  to 
his  grandmother,  and  treated  our  heroine  to  her  first 
encounter  with  a gentilhomme  in  the  flesh.  On  coming 
in  he  kissed  his  grandmother’s  hand,  with  a smile 
which  caused  her  to  draw  it  away  with  dignity,  and  set 
Euphemia,  who  was  standing  by,  wondering  what  had 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


383 


happened  between  them.  Her  unanswered  wonder 
was  but  the  beginning  of  a life  of  bitter  perplexity,  but 
the  reader  is  free  to  know  that  the  smile  of  M.  de 
Mauves  was  a reply  to  a certain  postscript  affixed  by 
the  old  lady  to  a letter  promptly  addressed  to  him  by 
her  granddaughter,  after  Euphemia  had  been  admit- 
ted to  justify  the  latter’s  promises.  Mademoiselle  de 
Mauves  brought  her  letter  to  her  grandmother  for 
approval,  but  obtained  no  more  than  was  expressed  in 
a frigid  nod.  The  old  lady  watched  her  with  a sombre 
glance  as  she  proceeded  to  seal  the  letter,  and  suddenly 
bade  her  open  it  again  and  bring  her  a pen. 

“ Your  sister’s  flatteries  are  all  nonsense,”  she  wrote  ; 
“ the  young  lady  is  far  too  good  for  you,  mauvais  sujet. 
If  you  have  a conscience  you’ll  not  come  and  take 
possession  of  an  angel  of  innocence.” 

The  young  girl,  who  had  read  these  lines,  made  up  a 
little  face  as  she  redirected  the  letter ; but  she  laid 
down  her  pen  with  a confident  nod,  which  might  have 
seemed  to  mean  that,  to  the  best  of  her  belief,  her 
brother  had  not  a conscience. 

“ If  you  meant  what  you  said,”  the  young  man  whis- 
pered to  his  grandmother  on  the  first  opportunity,  “it 
would  have  been  simpler  not  to  let  her  send  the 
letter ! ” 

It  was  perhaps  because  she  was  wounded  by  this 
cynical  insinuation,  that  Madame  de  Mauves  remained 


384 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


in  her  own  apartment  during  a greater  part  of  Eu- 
phemia’s  stay,  so  that  the  latter’s  angelic  innocence 
was  left  entirely  to  the  Baron’s  mercy.  It  suffered  no 
worse  mischance,  however,  than  to  be  prompted  to  in- 
tenser communion  with  itself.  M.  de  Mauves  was  the 
hero  of  the  young  girl’s  romance  made  real,  and  so 
completely  accordant  with  this  creature  of  her  imagi- 
nation, that  she  felt  afraid  of  him,  very  much  as  she 
would  have  been  of  a supernatural  apparition.  He 
was  thirty-five  years  old,  — young  enough  to  suggest 
possibilities  of  ardent  activity,  and  old  enough  to  have 
formed  opinions  which  a simple  woman  might  deem  it 
an  intellectual  privilege  to  listen  to.  He  was  perhaps 
a trifle  handsomer  than  Euphemia’s  rather  grim,  Quix- 
otic ideal,  but  a very  few  days  reconciled  her  to  his 
good  looks,  as  they  would  have  reconciled  her  to  his 
ugliness.  He  was  quiet,  grave,  and  eminently  distin- 
guished. He  spoke  little,  but  his  speeches,  without 
being  sententious,  had  a certain  nobleness  of  tone 
which  caused  them  to  re-echo  in  the  young  girl’s  ears 
at  the  end  of  the  day.  He  paid  her  very  little  direct 
attention,  but  his  chance  words  — if  he  only  asked  her 
if  she  objected  to  his  cigarette  — were  accompanied  by 
a smile  of  extraordinary  kindness. 

It  happened  that  shortly  after  his  arrival,  riding  an 
unruly  horse,  which  Euphemia  with  shy  admiration 
had  watched  him  mount  in  the  castle  yard,  he  was 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


385 

/ > 


thrown  with  a violence  which,  without  disparaging  his 
skill,  made  him  for  a fortnight  an  interesting  invalid, 
lounging  in  the  library  with  a bandaged  knee.  To 
beguile  his  confinement,  Euphemia  was  repeatedly 
induced  to  sing  to  him,  which  she  did  with  a little 
natural  tremor  in  her  voice,  which  might  have  passed 
for  an  exquisite  refinement  of  art.  He  never  over- 
whelmed her  with  compliments,  but  he  listened  with 
unwandering  attention,  remembered  all  her  melodies, 
and  sat  humming  them  to  himself.  While  his  impris- 
onment lasted,  indeed,  he  passed  hours  in  her  company, 
and  made  her  feel  not  unlike  some  unfriended  artist 
who  lias  suddenly  gained  the  opportunity  to  devote  a 
fortnight  to  the  study  of  a great  model.  Euphemia 
studied  with  noiseless  diligence  what  she  supposed  to 
be  the  “ character  ” of  M.  de  Mauves,  and  the  more  she 
looked  the  more  fine  lights  and  shades  she  seemed  to 
behold  in  this  masterpiece  of  nature.  M.  de  Mauves’s 
character  indeed,  whether  from  a sense  of  being  gener- 
ously scrutinized,  or  for  reasons  which  bid  graceful 
defiance  to  analysis,  had  never  been  so  amiable ; it 
seemed  really  to  reflect  the  purity  of  Euphemia’s  inter- 
pretation of  it.  There  had  been  nothing  especially  to 
admire  in  the  state  of  mind  in  which  he  left  Paris,  — a ■ 
hard  determination  to  marry  a young  girl  whose  charms 
might  or  might  not  justify  his  sister’s  account  of  them, 
but  who  was  mistress,  at  the  worst,  of  a couple  of  hun- 


386 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


dred  thousand  francs  a year.  He  had  not  counted  out 
sentiment ; if  she  pleased  him,  so  much  the  better ; 
but  he  had  left  a meagre  margin  for  it,  and  he  would 
hardly  have  admitted  that  so  excellent  a match  could 
be  improved  by  it.  He  was  a placid  sceptic,  and  it 
was  a singular  fate  for  a man  who  believed  in  nothing 
to  be  so  tenderly  believed  in.  What  his  original  faith 
had  been  he  could  hardly  have  told  you;  for  as  he 
came  back  to  his  childhood’s  home  to  mend  his  for- 
tunes by  pretending  to  fall  in  love,  he  was  a thor- 
oughly perverted  creature,  and  overlaid  with  more 
corruptions  than  a summer  day’s  questioning  of  his 
conscience  would  have  released  him  from.  Ten  years’ 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  which  a bureau  full  of  unpaid  bills 
was  all  he  had  to  show  for,  had  pretty  well  stifled  the 
natural  lad,  whose  violent  will  and  generous  temper 
might  have  been  shaped  by  other  circumstances  to  a 
result  which  a romantic  imagination  might  fairly  ac- 
cept as  a late-blooming  flower  of  hereditary  honor. 
The  Baron’s  violence  had  been  subdued,  and  he  had 
learned  to  be  irreproachably  polite ; but  he  had  lost 
^ the  edge  of  his  generosity,  and  his  politeness,  which  in 
the  long  run  society  paid  for,  was  hardly  more  than  a 
form  of  luxurious  egotism,  like  his  fondness  for  cam- 
bric handkerchiefs,  lavender  gloves,  and  other  fopperies 
by  which  shopkeepers  remained  out  of  pocket.  In 
after  years  lie  was  terribly  polite  to  his  wife.  He  had 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


387 


formed  himself,  as  the  phrase  was,  and  the  form  pre- 
scribed to  him  by  the  society  into  which  his  birih  and 
his  tastes  introduced  him  was  marked  by  some  peculiar 
features.  That  which  mainly  concerns  us  is  its  classi- 
fication of  the  fairer  half  of  humanity  as  objects  not 
essentially  different  — say  from  the  light  gloves  one 
soils  in  an  evening  and  throws  away.  To  do  M.  de 
Mauves  justice,  he  had  in  the  course  of  time  encoun- 
tered such  plentiful  evidence  of  this  pliant,  glove-like 
quality  in  the  feminine  character,  that  idealism  natu- 
rally seemed  to  him  a losing  game. 

Euphemia,  as  he  lay  on  his  sofa,  seemed  by  no 
means  a refutation;  she  simply  reminded  him  that 
very  young  women  are  generally  innocent,  and  that 
this,  on  the  whole,  was  the  most  charming  stage  of 
their  development.  Her  innocence  inspired  him  with 
profound  respect,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  if  he 
shortly  became  her  husband  it  would  be  exposed  to  a 
danger  the  less.  Old  Madame  de  Mauves,  who  flat- 
tered herself  that  in  this  whole  matter  she  was  being 
laudably  rigid,  might  have  learned  a lesson  from  his 
gallant  consideration.  Eor  a fortnight  the  Baron  was 
almost  a blushing  boy  again.  He  watched  from  be- 
hind the  “ Figaro,”  and  admired,  and  held  his  tongue. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  disposed  toward  a flirtation ; 
he  had  no  desire  to  trouble  the  waters  he  proposed 
to  transfuse  into  the  golden  cup  of  matrimony.  Some- 


388 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


times  a word,  a look,  a movement  of  Euphemia’s,  gave 
him  the  oddest  sense  of  being,  or  of  seeming  at  least, 
almost  bashful;  for  she  had  a way  of  not  dropping 
her  eyes,  according  to  the  mysterious  virginal  mech- 

Ianism,  of  not  fluttering  out  of  the  room  when  she 
found  him  there  alone,  of  treating  him  rather  as  a 
benignant  than  as  a pernicious  influence,  — a radiant 
frankness  of  demeanor,  in  fine,  in  spite  of  an  evident 
natural  reserve,  which  it  seemed  equally  graceless  not 
to  make  the  subject  of  a compliment  and  indelicate 
not  to  take  for  granted.  In  this  way  there  was 
wrought  in  the  Baron's  mind  a vague,  unwonted  reso- 
nance of  soft  impressions,  as  we  may  call  it,  which 
indicated  the  transmutation  of  “ sentiment"  from  a con- 
tingency into  a fact.  His  imagination  enjoyed  it ; he 
was  very  fond  of  music,  and  this  reminded  him  of 
some  of  the  best  he  had  ever  heard.  In  spite  of  the 
bore  of  being  laid  up  with  a lame  knee,  he  was  in  a 
better  humor  than  he  had  known  for  months ; he  lay 
smoking  cigarettes  and  listening  to  the  nightingales, 
with  the  comfortable  smile  of  one  of  his  country  neigh- 
bors whose  big  ox  should  have  taken  the  prize  at  a 
fair.  Every  now  and  then,  wTith  an  impatient  sus- 
picion of  the  resemblance,  he  declared  that  he  was 
pitifully  bdte ; but  he  was  under  a charm  which  braved 
even  the  supreme  penalty  of  seeming  ridiculous.  One 
morning  he  had  half  an  hours  tete-&-tete  with  his 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


389 


grandmother’s  confessor,  a soft-voiced  old  abbe,  whom, 
for  reasons  of  her  own,  Madame  de  Mauves  had  sud- 
denly summoned,  and  had  left  waiting  in  the  drawing- 
room while  she  rearranged  her  curls.  His  reverence, 
going  up  to  the  old  lady,  assured  her  that  M.  le  Baron 
was  in  a most  edifying  state  of  mind,  and  a promising 
subject  for  the  operation  of  grace.  This  was  a pious 
interpretation  of  the  Baron’s  momentary  good-humor. 
He  had  always  lazily  wondered  what  priests  were  good 
for,  and  he  now  remembered,  with  a sense  of  especial 
obligation  to  the  abbe,  that  they  were  excellent  for 
marrying  people. 

A day  or  two  after  this  he  left  off  his  bandages,  and 
tried  to  walk.  He  made  his  way  into  the  garden  and 
hobbled  successfully  along  one  of  the  alleys;  but  in 
the  midst  of  his  progress  he  was  seized  with  a spasm 
of  pain  which  forced  him  to  stop  and  call  for  help. 
In  an  instant  Euphemia  came  tripping  along  the  path 
and  offered  him  her  arm  with  the  frankest  solicitude. 

“Not  to  the  house,”  he  said,  taking  it;  “farther  on, 
to  the  bosquet.”  This  choice  was  prompted  by  her 
having  immediately  confessed  that  she  had  seen  him 
leave  the  house,  had  feared  an  accident,  and  had  fol- 
lowed him  on  tiptoe. 

“ Why  did  n’t  you  join  me  ? ” he  had  asked,  giving 
her  a look  in  which  admiration  was  no  longer  dis- 
guised, and  yet  felt  itself  half  at  the  mercy  of  her 


390 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


replying  that  a jcune  filU  should  not  be  seen  following 
a gentleman.  But  it  drew  a breath  which  filled  its 
lungs  for  a long  time  afterward,  when  she  replied 
simply  that  if  she  had  overtaken  him  he  might  have 
accepted  her  arm  out  of  politeness,  whereas  she  wished 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  walk  alone. 

The  bosquet  was  covered  with  an  odorous  tangle  of 
blossoming  vines,  and  a nightingale  overhead  was  shak- 
ing out  love-notes  with  a profuseness  which  made  the 
Baron  consider  his  own  conduct  the  perfection  of  pro- 
priety. 

“ In  America,”  he  said,  “ I have  always  heard  that 
when  a man  wishes  to  marry  a young  girl,  he  offers 
himself  simply,  face  to  face,  without  any  ceremony,  — 
without  parents,  and  uncles,  and  cousins  sitting  round 
in  a circle.” 

“ Why,  I believe  so,”  said  Euphemia,  staring,  and  too 
surprised  to  be  alarmed. 

“Very  well,  then,”  said  the  Baron,  “suppose  our 
bosquet  here  to  be  America.  I offer  you  my  hand, 
a TAmericaine.  It  will  make  me  intensely  happy  to 
have  you  accept  it.” 

Whether  Euphemia’s  acceptance  was  in  the  Ameri- 
can manner  is  more  than  I can  say ; I incline  to  think 
that  for  fluttering,  grateful,  trustful,  softly  - amazed 
young  hearts,  there  is  only  one  manner  all  over  the 
world. 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


391 


That  evening,  in  the  little  turret  chamber  which  it 
was  her  happiness  to  inhabit,  she  wrote  a dutiful  letter 
to  her  mamma,  and  had  just  sealed  it  when  she  was 
sent  for  by  Madame  de  Mauves.  She  found  this  an- 
cient lady  seated  in  her  boudoir,  in  a lavender  satin 
gown,  with  all  her  candles  lighted,  as  if  to  celebrate 
her  grandson’s  betrothal.  “ Are  you  very  happy  ? ” 
Madame  de  Mauves  demanded,  making  Eupliemia  sit 
down  before  her. 

“ I ’m  almost  afraid  to  say  so,”  said  the  young  girl, 
“lest  I should  wake  myself  up.” 

“May  you  never  wake  up,  belle  enfant ,”  said  the 
old  lady,  solemnly.  “ This  is  the  first  marriage  ever 
made  in  our  family  in  this  way,  — by  a Baron  de 
Mauves  proposing  to  a young  girl  in  an  arbor,  like 
Jeannot  and  Jeannette.  It  has  not  been  our  way  of 
doing  things,  and  people  may  say  it  wants  frankness. 
My  grandson  tells  me  he  considers  it  the  perfection 
of  frankness.  Very  good.  I ’m  a very  old  woman, 
and  if  your  differences  should  ever  be  as  frank  as  your 
agreement,  I should  n’t  like  to  see  them.  But  I 
should  be  sorry  to  die  and  think  you  were  going  to 
be  unhappy.  You  can’t  be,  beyond  a certain  point ; 
because,  though  in  this  world  the  Lord  sometimes 
makes  light  of  our  expectations,  he  never  altogether 
ignores  our  deserts.  But  you  ’re  very  young  and  inno- 
cent, and  easy  to  deceive.  There  never  was  a man  in 


392 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


the  world  — among  the  saints  themselves  — as  good 
as  you  believe  the  Baron.  But  he ’s  a galant  homme 
and  a gentleman,  and  I ’ve  been  talking  to  him  to- 
night. To  you  I want  to  say  this,  — that  you  ’re  to 
forget  the  worldly  rubbish  I talked  the  other  day 
about  frivolous  women  being  happy.  It ’s  not  the 
kind  of  happiness  that  would  suit  you.  Whatever 
befalls  you,  promise  me  this:  to  be  yourself.  The 
Baronne  de  Mauves  will  be  none  the  worse  for  it. 
Yourself,  understand,  in  spite  of  everything,  — bad 
precepts  and  bad  examples,  bad  usage  even.  Be  per- 
sistently and  patiently  yourself,  and  a De  Mauves  will 
do  you  justice  ! ” 

Euphemia  remembered  this  speech  in  after  years,  and 
more  than  once,  wearily  closing  her  eyes,  she  seemed 
to  see  the  old  woman  sitting  upright  in  her  faded  fin- 
ery and  smiling  grimly,  like  one  of  the  Fates  who  sees 
the  wheel  of  fortune  turning  up  her  favorite  event. 
But  at  the  moment  it  seemed  to  her  simply  to  have 
the  proper  gravity  of  the  occasion ; this  was  the  way, 
she  supposed,  in  which  lucky  young  girls  were  ad- 
dressed on  their  engagement  by  wise  old  women  of 
quality. 

At  her  convent,  to  which  she  immediately  returned, 
she  found  a letter  from  her  mother,  which  shocked  her 
far  more  than  the  remarks  of  Madame  de  Mauves. 
Who  were  these  people,  Mrs.  Cleve  demanded,  who 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


393 


had  presumed  to  talk  to  her  daughter  of  marriage  with- 
out asking  her  leave  ? Questionable  gentlefolk,  plain- 
ly ; the  best  French  people  never  did  such  things. 
Euphemia  would  return  straightway  to  her  convent, 
shut  herself  up,  and  await  her  own  arrival. 

It  took  Mrs.  Cleve  three  weeks  to  travel  from  Nice 
to  Paris,  and  during  this  time  the  young  girl  had  no 
communication  with  her  lover  beyond  accepting  a bou- 
quet of  violets,  marked  with  his  initials  and  left  by  a 
female  friend.  “ I Ve  not  brought  you  up  with  such 
devoted  care,”  she  declared  to  her  daughter  at  their 
first  interview,  “ to  marry  a penniless  Frenchman.  I 
will  take  you  straight  home,  and  you  will  please  to 
forget  M.  de  Mauves.” 

Mrs.  Cleve  received  that  evening  at  her  hotel  a visit 
from  the  Baron  which  mitigated  her  wrath,  but  failed 
to  modify  her  decision.  He  had  very  good  manners, 
but  she  was  sure  he  had  horrible  morals ; and  Mrs. 
Cleve,  who  had  been  a very  good-natured  censor  on 
her  own  account,  felt  a genuine  spiritual  need  to  sac- 
rifice her  daughter  to  propriety.  She  belonged  to  that 
large  class  of  Americans  who  make  light  of  America  in 
familiar  discourse,  but  are  startled  back  into  a sense  of 
moral  responsibility  when  they  find  Europeans  taking 
them  at  their  word.  “ I know  the  type,  my  dear,”  she 
said  to  her  daughter  with  a sagacious  nod.  “ He  11  not 
beat  you ; sometimes  you  11  wish  he  would.” 

17* 


394 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


Euphemia  remained  solemnly  silent ; for  the  only 
answer  she  felt  capable  of  making  her  mother  was  that 
her  mind  was  too  small  a measure  of  things,  and  that 
the  Baron's  “ type  ” was  one  which  it  took  some  mys- 
tical illumination  to  appreciate.  A person  who  con- 
founded him  with  the  common  throng  of  her  watering- 
place  acquaintance  ’was  not  a person  to  argue  with. 
It  seemed  to  Euphemia  that  she  had  no  cause  to  plead ; 
her  cause  was  in  the  Lord’s  hands  and  her  lover’s. 

M.  de  Mauves  had  been  irritated  and  mortified  by 
Mrs.  Cleve’s  opposition,  and  hardly  knew  how  to  han- 
dle an  adversary  who  failed  to  perceive  that  a De 
Mauves  of  necessity  gave  more  than  he  received.  But 
he  had  obtained  information  on  his  return  to  Paris 
which  exalted  the  uses  of  humility.  Euphemia’s  for- 
tune, wonderful  to  say,  was  greater  than  its  fame,  and 
in  view  of  such  a prize,  even  a De  Mauves  could  afford 
to  take  a snubbing. 

, The  young  man’s  tact,  his  deference,  his  urbane  in- 
sistence, won  a concession  from  Mrs.  Cleve.  The  en- 
gagement was  to  be  suspended  and  her  daughter  was 
to  return  home,  be  brought  out  and  receive  the  homage 
she  was  entitled  to,  and  which  would  but  too  surely 
take  a form  dangerous  to  the  Baron’s  suit.  They  were 
to  exchange  neither  letters,  nor  mementos,  nor  mes- 
sages ; but  if  at  the  end  of  two  years  Euphemia  had 
refused  offers  enough  to  attest  the  permanence  of  her 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


395 


attachment,  he  should  receive  an  invitation  to  address 
her  again. 

This  decision  was  promulgated  in  the  presence  of  the 
parties  interested.  The  Baron  bore  himself  gallantly, 
and  looked  at  the  young  girl,  expecting  some  tender 
protestation.  But  she  only  looked  at  him  silently  in . 
return,  neither  weeping,  nor  smiling,  nor  putting  out 
her  hand.  On  this  they  separated ; but  as  the  Baron 
walked  away,  he  declared  to  himself  that,  in  spite  of 
the  confounded  two  "years,  he  was  a very  happy  fellow, 
— to  have  a fiancee  who,  to  several  millions  of  francs, 
added  such  strangely  beautiful  eyes. 

How  many  offers  Eupliemia  refused  but  scantily 
concerns  us,  — and  how  the  Baron  wore  his  two  years 
away.  He  found  that  he  needed  pastimes,  and,  as 
pastimes  were  expensive,  he  added  heavily  to  the 
list  of  debts  to  be  cancelled  by  Euphemia’s  millions. 
Sometimes,  in  the  thick  -of  what  he  had  once  called 
pleasure  with  a keener  conviction  than  now,  he  put 
to  himself  the  case  of  their  failing  him  after  all ; and 

then  he  remembered  that  last  mute  assurance  of  her 

* % 

eyes,  and  drew  a long  breath  of  such  confidence  as  he 
felt  in  nothing  else  in  the  world  save  his  own  punc- 
tuality in  an  affair  of  honor. 

At  last,  one  morning,  he  took  the  express  to  Havre 
with  a letter  of  Mrs.  Cleve’s  in  his  pocket,  and  ten 
days  later  made  his  bow  to  mother  and  daughter  in 


J 


396  MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 

New  York.  His  stay  was  brief,  and  he  was  apparently 
1 unable  to  bring  himself  to  view  what  Euphemia’s 
\ uncle,  Mr.  Butterworth,  who  gave  her  away  at  the 
ialtar,  called  our  great  experiment  in  democratic  self- 
government  in  a serious  light.  He  smiled  at  every- 
thing, and  seemed  to  regard  the  New  World  as  a co- 
lossal plaisanterie.  It  is  true  that  a perpetual  smile 
was  the  most  natural  expression  of  countenance  for  a 
man  about  to  marry  Euphemia  Cleve. 


III. 


ONGMORE’S  first  visit  seemed  to  open  to  him 


-1J  so  large  an  opportunity  for  tranquil  enjoyment, 
that  he  very  soon  paid  a second,  and,  at  the  end  of  a 
fortnight,  had  spent  a great  many  hours  in  the  little 
drawing-room  which  Madame  de  Mauves  rarely  quitted 
except  to  drive  or  walk  in  the  forest.  She  lived  in  an 
old-fashioned  pavilion,  between  a high-walled  court  and 
an  excessively  artificial  garden,  beyond  whose  enclos- 
ure you  saw  a long  line  of  tree-tops.  Longmore  liked 
the  garden,  and  in  the  mild  afternoons  used  to  move 
his  chair  through  the  open  window  to  the  little  terrace 
which  overlooked  it,  while  his  hostess  sat  just  within. 
After  a while  she  came  out  and  wandered  through  the 
narrow  alleys  and  beside  the  thin-spouting  fountain, 
and  last  introduced  him  to  a little  gate  in  the  garden 
wall,  opening  upon  a lane  which  led  into  the  forest. 
Hitherward,  more  than  once,  she  wandered  with  him, 
bareheaded  and  meaning,  to  go  but  twenty  rods,  but 
always  strolling  good-naturedly  farther,  and  often  tak- 
ing a generous  walk.  They  discovered  a vast  deal  to 
talk  about,  and  to  the  pleasure  of  finding  the  hours 


398 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


tread  inaudibly  away,  Longmore  was  able  to  add  the 
satisfaction  of  suspecting  that  he  was  a “ resource  ” for 
Madame  de  Mauves.  He  had  made  her  acquaintance 
with  the  sense,  not  altogether  comfortable,  that  she 
was  a woman  with  a painful  secret,  and  that  seeking 
her  acquaintance  would  be  like  visiting  at  a house 
where  there  was  an  invalid  who  could  bear  no  noise. 
But  he  very  soon  perceived  that  her  sorrow,  since  sor- 
row it  was,  was  not  an  aggressive  one  ; that  it  was  not 
fond  of  attitudes  and  ceremonies,  and  that  her  earnest 
wish  was  to  forget  it.  He  felt  that  even  if  Mrs.  Dra- 
per had  not  told  him  she  was  unhappy,  he  would  have 
guessed  it ; and  yet  he  could  hardly  have  pointed  to 
his  evidence.  It  was  chiefly  negative,  — she  never 
alluded  to  her  husband.  Beyond  this  it  seemed  to 
him  simply  that  her  whole  being  was  pitched  on  a 
lower  key  than  harmonious  Nature  meant ; she  was 
like  a powerful  singer  who  had  lost  her  high  notes. 
She  never  drooped  nor  sighed  nor  looked  unutterable 
things  ; she  indulged  in  no  dusky  sarcasms  against 
fate  ; she  had,  in  short,  none  of  the  coquetry  of  un- 
happiness. But  Longmore  was  sure  that  her  gentle 
gayety  was  the  result  of  strenuous  effort,  and  that  she 
was  trying  to  interest  herself  in  his  thoughts  to  escape 
from  her  own.  If  she  had  wished  to  irritate  his  curi- 
osity and  lead  him  to  take  her  confidence  by  storm, 
nothing  could  have  served  her  purpose  better  than  this 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


399 


ingenuous  reserve.  He  declared  to  himself  that  there 
was  a rare  magnanimity  in  such  ardent  self-effacement, 
and  that  but  one  woman  in  ten  thousand  was  capable 
of  merging  an  intensely  personal  grief  in  thankless] 
outward  contemplation.  Madame  de  Mauves,  he  in- i 
stinctively  felt,  was  not  sweeping  the  horizon  for  a 
compensation  or  a consoler  ; she  had  suffered  a per- 
sonal deception  which  had  disgusted  her  with  persons. 
She  was  not  striving  to  balance  her  sorrow  with  some 
strongly  flavored  joy  ; for  the  present,  she  was  trying 
to  live  with  it,  peaceably,  reputably,  and  without  scan- 
dal, — turning  the  key  on  it  occasionally,  as  you  would 
on  a companion  liable  to  attacks  of  insanity.  Long- 
more  was  a man  of  fine  senses  and  of  an  active  imagi- 
nation, whose  leading-strings  had  never  been  slipped. 
He  began  to  regard  his  hostess  as  a figure  haunted  by 
a shadow  which  was  somehow  her  intenser,  more  au- 
thentic self.  This  hovering  mystery  came  to  have  for 
him  an  extraordinary  charm.  Her  delicate  beauty 
acquired  to  his  eye  the  serious  cast  of  certain  blank- 
browed  Greek  statues,  and  sometimes,  when  his  imagi- 
nation, more  than  his  ear,  detected  a vague  tremor  in 
the  tone  in  which  she  attempted  to  make  a friendly 
question  seem  to  have  behind  it  none  of  the  hollow 
resonance  of  absent-mindedness,  his  marvelling  eyes 
gave  her  an  answer  more  eloquent,  though  much  less 
to  the  point,  than  the  one  she  demanded. 


400 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


She  gave  him  indeed  much  to  wonder  about,  and, 
in  his  ignorance,  he  formed  a dozen  experimental 
theories  upon  the  history  of  her  marriage.  She  had 
married  for  love ' and  staked  her  whole  soul  on  it ; 
of  that  he  was  convinced.  She  had  not  married  a 
Frenchman  to  be  near  Paris  and  her  base  of  supplies 
of  millinery ; he  was  sure  she  had  seen  conjugal  hap- 
piness in  a light  of  which  her  present  life,  with  its 
conveniences  for  shopping  and  its  moral  aridity,  was 
the  absolute  negation.  But  by  what  extraordinary 
process  of  the  heart  — through  what  mysterious  in- 
termission of  that  moral  instinct  which  may  keep 
pace  with  the  heart,  even  when  that  organ  is  making 
unprecedented  time  — had  she  fixed  her  affections  on 
an  arrogantly  frivolous  Frenchman  ? Longmore  needed 
no  telling ; he  knew  M.  de  Mauves  wTas  frivolous ; 
it  was  stamped  on  his  eyes,  his  nose,  his  mouth,  his 
carriage.  For  French  women  Longmore  had  but  a 
scanty  kindness,  or  at  least  (what  with  him  was  very 
much  the  same  thing)  but  a scanty  gallantry;  they 
all  seemed  to  belong  to  the  type  of  a certain  fine 
lady  to  whom  he  had  ventured  to  present  a letter  of 
introduction,  and  whom,  directly  after  his  first  visit 
to  her,  he  had  set  down  in  his  note-book  as  “metal- 
lic.” Why  should  Madame  de  Mauves  have  chosen 
a French  woman’s  lot,  — she  whose  character  had  a 
perfume  which  does  n’t  belong  to  even  the  brightest 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


401 


metals  ? He  asked  her  one  day  frankly  if  it  had 
cost  her  nothing  to  transplant  herself,  — if  she  was 
not  oppressed  with  a sense  of  irreconcilable  difference 
from  “all  these  people.”  She  was  silent  awhile,  and 
he  fancied  that  she  was  hesitating  as  to  whether  she 
should  resent  so  unceremonious  an  allusion  to  her 
husband.  He  almost  wished  she  would;  it  would 
seem  a proof  that  her  deep  reserve  of  sorrow  had  a 
limit. 

“I  almost  grew  up  here,”  she  said  at  last,  “and  it 
was  here  for  me  that  those  dreams  of  the  future  took 
shape  that  we  all  have  when  we  cease  to  be  very 
young.  As  matters  stand,  one  may  be  very  American 
and  yet  arrange  it  with  one’s  conscience  to  live  in 
Europe.  My  imagination  perhaps  — I had  a little 
when  I was  younger  — helped  me  to  think  I should 
find  happiness  here.  And  after  all,  for  a woman, 
what  does  it  signify  ? This  is  not  America,  perhaps, 
about  me,  but  it ’s  quite  as  little  France.  France 
is  out  there,  beyond  the  garden,  in  the  town,  in  the 
forest ; but  here,  close  about  me,  in  my  room  and  ” — 
she  paused  a moment  — “ in  my  mind,  it ’s  a name- 
less country  of  my  own.  It’s  not  her  country,”  she 
added,  “that  makes  a woman  happy  or  unhappy.” 

Madame  Clairin,  Euphemia’s  sister-in-law,  might 
have  been  supposed  to  have  undertaken  the  graceful 
task  of  making  Longmore  ashamed  of  his  uncivil  jot- 


z 


402 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


tings  about  her  sex  and  nation.  Mademoiselle  de 
Mauves,  bringing  example  to  the  confirmation  of  pre- 
cept, had  made  a remunerative  match  and  sacrificed 
her  name  to  the  millions  of  a prosperous  and  aspir- 
ing wholesale  druggist,  — a gentleman  liberal  enough 
to  consider  his  fortune  a moderate  price  for  being 
towed  into  circles  unpervaded  by  pharmaceutic  odors. 
His  system,  possibly,  was  sound,  but  his  own  appli- 
cation of  it  was  unfortunate.  M.  Clairin’s  head  was 
turned  by  his  good  luck.  Having  secured  an  aristo- 
cratic wife,  he  adopted  an  aristocratic  vice  and  began 
to  gamble  at  the  Bourse.  In  an  evil  hour  he  lost 
heavily  and  staked  heavily  to  recover  himself.  But 
he  overtook  his  loss  only  by  a greater  one.  Then  he 
let  everything  go,  — his  wits,  his  courage,  his  prob- 
ity,— everything  that  had  made  him  what  his  ridic- 
ulous marriage  had  so  promptly  unmade.  He  walked 
up  the  Hue  Vivienne  one  day  with  his  hands  in  his 
empty  pockets,  and  stood  for  half  an  hour  staring  con- 
fusedly up  and  down  the  glittering  boulevard.  People 
brushed  against  him,  and  half  a dozen  carriages  almost 
ran  over  him,  until  at  last  a-  policeman,  who  had  been 
watching  him  for  some  time,  took  him  by  the  arm  and 
led  him  gently  away.  He  looked  at  the  man’s  cocked 
hat  and  sword  with  tears  in  his  eyes ; he  hoped  he 
was  going  to  interpret  to  him  the  wrath  of  Pleaven,  — 
to  execute  the  penalty  of  his  dead-weight  of  self-ab- 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


403 


horrence.  But  the  sergent  de  ville  only  stationed  him 
in  the  embrasure  of  a door,  out  of  harm’s  way,  and 
walked  away  to  supervise  a financial  contest  between 
an  old  lady  and  a cabman.  Poor  M.  Clairin  had 
only  been  married  a year,  but  he  had  had  time  to 
measure  the  lofty  spirit  of  a De  Mauves.  When  night 
had  fallen,  he  repaired  to  the  house  of  a friend  and 
asked  for  a night’s  lodging;  and  as  his  friend,  who 
was  simply  his  old  head  book-keeper  and  lived  in  a 
small  way,  was  put  to  some  trouble  to  accommodate 
him,  — “You  must  excuse  me,”  Clairin  said,  “but  I 
can’t  go  home.  I ’m  afraid  of  my  wife  ! ” Toward 
morning  he  blew  his  brains  out.  His  widow  turned 
the  remnants  of  his  property  to  better  account  than 
could  have  been  expected,  and  wore  the  very  hand- 
somest mourning.  It  was  for  this  latter  reason,  per- 
haps, that  she  was  obliged  to  retrench  at  other  points 
and  accept  a temporary  home  under  her  brother’s 
roof. 

Fortune  had  played  Madame  Clairin  a terrible  trick, 
but  had  found  an  adversary  and  not  a victim.  Though 
quite  without  beauty,  she  had  always  had  what  is 
called  the  grand  air,  and  her  air  from  this  time  for- 
ward was  grander  than  ever.  As  she  trailed  about  in 
her  sable  furbelows,  tossing  back  her  well-dressed 
head,  and  holding  up  her  vigilant  eye-glass,  she 
seemed  to  be  sweeping  the  whole  field  of  society  and 


404 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


asking  herself  where  she  should  pluck  her  revenge. 
Suddenly  she  espied  it,  ready  made  to  her  hand,  in 
poor  Longmore’s  wealth  and  amiability.  American 
dollars  and  American  complaisance  had  made  her 
brother’s  fortune ; why  should  n’t  they  make  hers  ? 
She  overestimated  Longmore’s  wealth  and  misinter- 
preted his  amiability ; for  she  was  sure  that  a man 
could  not  be  so  contented  without  being  rich,  nor  so 
unassuming  without  being  weak.  He  encountered  her 
advances  with  a formal  politeness  which  covered  a 
great  deal  of  unflattering  discomposure.  She  made 
him  feel  acutely  uncomfortable ; and  though  he  was 
at  a loss  to  conceive  how  he  could  be  an  object  of 
interest  to  a shrewd  Parisienne,  he  had  an  indefinable 
! sense  of  being  enclosed  in  a magnetic  circle,  like  the 
\ victim  of  an  incantation.  If  Madame  Clairin  could 
have  fathomed  his  Puritanic  soul,  she  would  have 
laid  by  her  wand  and  her  book  and  admitted  that  he 
was  an  impossible  subject.  She  gave  him  a kind  of 
moral  chill,  and  he  never  mentally  alluded  to  her 
save  as  that  dreadful  woman,  — that  terrible  woman. 
He  did  justice  to  her  grand  air,  but  for  his  pleasure 
he  preferred  the  small  air  of  Madame  de  Mauves  ; 
and  he  never  made  her  his  bow,  after  standing  frigidly 
passive  for  five  minutes  to  one  of  her  gracious  over- 
tures to  intimacy,  without  feeling  a peculiar  desire  to 
ramble  away  into  the  forest,  fling  himself  down  on 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


405 


the  warm  grass,  and,  staring  up  at  the  blue  shy,  for- 
get that  there  were  any  women  in  nature  who  did  n’t 
please  like  the  swaying  tree-tops.  One  day,  on  his 
arrival,  she  met  him  in  the  court  and  told  him  that 
her  sister-in-law  was  shut  up  with  a headache,  and 
that  his  visit  must  be  for  her.  He  followed  her  into 
the  drawing-room  with  the  best  grace  at  his  command, 
and  sat  twirling  his  hat  for  half  an  hour.  Suddenly 
he  understood  her ; the  caressing  cadence  of  her  voice 
was  a distinct  invitation  to  solicit  the  incomparable 
honor  of  her  hand.  He  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair  and  jumped  up  with  uncontrollable  alacrity ; then, 
dropping  a glance  at  Madame  Clairin,  who  sat  watch- 
ing him  with  hard  eyes  over  the  edge  of  her  smile,  as 
it  were,  perceived  on  her  brow  a flash  of  unforgiving 
wrath.  It  was  not  becoming,  but  his  eyes  lingered 
a moment,  for  it  seemed  to  illuminate  her  character. 
What  he  saw  there  frightened  him,  and  he  felt  him- 
self murmuring,  “ Poor  Madame  de  Mauves  ! ” His 
departure  was  abrupt,  and  this  time  he  really  went 
into  the  forest  and  lay  down  on  the  grass. 

After  this  he  admired  Madame  de  Mauves  more 
than  ever ; she  seemed  a brighter  figure,  dogged  by  a 
darker  shadow.  At  the  end  of  a month  he  received  a 
letter  from  a friend  with  whom  he  had  arranged  a 
tour  through  the  Low  Countries,  reminding  him  of  his 
promise  to  meet  him  promptly  at  Brussels.  It  was 


406 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


only  after  his  answer  was  posted  that  he  fully  meas- 
ured the  zeal  with  which  he  had  declared  that  the 
journey  must  either  be  deferred  or  abandoned,  — that 
he  could  not  possibly  leave  Saint-Germain.  He  took 
a walk  in  the  forest,  and  asked  himself  if  this  was 
irrevocably  true.  If  it  was,  surely  his  duty  was  to 
march  straight  home  and  pack  his  trunk.  Poor  Web- 
ster, who,  he  knew,  had  counted  ardently  on  this 
excursion,  was  an  excellent  fellow ; six  weeks  ago  he 
would  have  gone  .through  fire  and  water  to  join  Web- 
ster. It  had  never  been  in  his  books  to  throw  over- 
board a friend  whom  he  had  loved  for  ten  years  for  a 
married  woman  whom  for  six  weeks  he  had  — admired. 
It  was  certainly  beyond  question  that  he  was  linger- 
ing at  Saint-Germain  because  this  admirable  married 
woman  was  there ; but  in  the  midst  of  all  this  admi- 
ration what  had  become  of  prudence  ? This  was  the 
conduct  of  a man  prepared  to  fall  utterly  in  love.  If 
she  was  as  unhappy  as  he  believed,  the  love  of  such  a 
man  would  help  her  very  little  more  than  his  indiffer- 
ence ; if  she  was  less  so,  she  needed  no  help  and  could 
dispense  with  his  friendly  offices.  He  was  sure,  more- 
over, that  if  she  knew  he  was  staying  on  her  account, 
she  would  be  extremely  annoyed.  But  this  very  feel- 
ing had  much  to  do  with  making  it  hard  to  go ; her 
displeasure  would  only  enhance  the  gentle  stoicism 
which  touched  him  to  the  heart.  At  moments,  indeed. 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


407 


lie  assured  himself  that  to  linger  was  simply  imperti- 
nent ; it  was  indelicate  to  make  a daily  study  of  such 
a shrinking  grief.  But  inclination  answered  that  some 
day  her  self-support  would  fail,  and  he  had  a vision 
of  this  admirable  creature  calling  vainly  for  help.  He 
would  be  her  friend,  to  any  length;  it  was  unworthy 
of  both  of  them  to  think  about  consequences.  But  he 
was  a friend  who  carried  about  with  him  a mutter- 
ing resentment  that  he  had  not  known  her  five  years 
earlier,  and  a brooding  hostility  to  those  who  had  an- 
ticipated him.  It  seemed  one  of  fortune's  most  mock- 
ing strokes,  that  she  should  be  surrounded  by  persons 
whose  only  merit  was  that  they  threw  the  charm  of 
her  character  into  radiant  relief. 

Longmore’s  growing  irritation  made  it  more  and 
more  difficult  for  him  to  see  any  other  merit  than  this 
in  the  Baron  de  Mauves.  And  yet,  disinterestedly,  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  give  a name  to  the  porten- 
tous vices  which  such  an  estimate  implied,  and  there 
were  times  when  our  hero  was  almost  persuaded 
against  his  finer  judgment  that  he  was  really  the  most 
considerate  of  husbands,  and  that  his  wife  liked  melan- 
choly for  melancholy’s  sake.  His  manners  were  per- 
fect, his  urbanity  was  unbounded,  and  he  seemed  never 
to  address  her  but,  sentimentally  speaking,  hat  in  hand. 
His  tone  to  Longmore  (as  the  latter  was  perfectly 
aware)  was  that  of  a man  of  the  world  to  a man  not 


408 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


quite  of  the  world ; but  what  it  lacked  in  deference 
it  made  up  in  easy  friendliness.  “ I can’t  thank  you 
enough  for  having  overcome  my  wife’s  shyness,”  he 
more  than  once  declared.  “ If  we  left  her  to  do  as  she 
pleased,  she  would  bury  herself  alive.  Come  often, 
and  bring  some  one  else.  She’ll  have  nothing  to  do 
with  my  friends,  but  perhaps  she  ’ll  accept  yours.” 

The  Baron  made  these  speeches  with  a remorseless 
placidity  very  amazing  to  our  hero,  who  had  an  inno- 
cent belief  that  a man’s  head  may  point  out  to  him  the 
shortcomings  of  his  heart  and  make  him  ashamed  of 
them.  He  could  not  fancy  him  capable  both  of  neg- 
lecting his  wife  and  taking  an  almost  humorous  view 
of  her  suffering.  Longmore  had,  at  any  rate,  an  exas- 
perating sense  that  the  Baron  thought  rather  less  of 
his  wife  than  more,  for  that  very  same  fine  difference 
of  nature  which  so  deeply  stirred  his  own  sympathies. 
He  was  rarely  present  during  Longmore’s  visits,  and 
made  a daily  journey  to  Paris,  where  he  had  “ busi- 
ness,” as  he  once  mentioned,  — not  in  the  least  with  a 
tone  of  apology.  When  he  appeared,  it  was  late  in  the 
evening,  and  with  an  imperturbable  air  of  being  on  the 
best  of  terms  with  every  one  and  everything,  which 
was  peculiarly  annoying  if  you  happened  to  have  a 
tacit  quarrel  with  him.  If  he  was  a good  fellow,  he 
was  surely  a good  fellow  spoiled.  Something  he 
had,  however,  which  Longmore  vaguely  envied  — a 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


409 


kind  of  superb  positiveness  — a manner  rounded  and 
polished  by  the  traditions  of  centuries  — an  amenity 
exercised  for  his  own  sake  and  not  his  neighbors'  — 
which  seemed  the  result  of  something  better  than  a 
good  conscience  — of  a vigorous  and  unscrupulous 
temperament.  The  Baron  was  plainly  not  a moral 
man,  and  poor  Longmore,  who  was,  would  have  been 
glad  to  learn  the  secret  of  his  luxurious  serenity. 
What  was  it  that  enabled  him,  without  being  a mon- 
ster with  visibly  cloven  feet,  exhaling  brimstone,  to 
misprize  so  cruelly  a lovely  wife,  and  to  walk  about 
the  world  with  a smile  under  his  mustache  ? It  was 
the  essential  grossness  of  his  imagination,  which  had 
nevertheless  helped  him  to  turn  so  many  neat  compli- 
ments. He  could  be  very  polite,  and  he  could  doubt- 
less be  supremely  impertinent ; but  he  was  as  unable 
to  draw  a moral  inference  of  the  finer  strain,  as  a 
school-boy  who  has  been  playing  truant  for  a week  to 
solve  a problem  in  algebra.  It  was  ten  to  one  hef 
did  n't  know  his  wife  was  unhappy ; he  and  his  bril- 
liant sister  had  doubtless  agreed  to  consider  their  com- 
panion a Puritanical  little  person,  of  meagre  aspira- 
tions and  slender  accomplishments,  contented  with 
looking  at  Paris  from  the  terrace,  and,  as  an  especial 
treat,  having  a countryman  very  much  like  herself  to 
supply  her  with  homely  transatlantic  gossip.  M.  de 
Mauves  was  tired  of  his  companion : he  relished  a 


410 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


higher  flavor  in  female  society.  She  was  too  modest, 
too  simple,  too  delicate  ; she  had  too  few  arts,  too  little 
coquetry,  too  much  charity.  M.  de  Mauves,  some  day, 
lighting  a cigar,  had  probably  decided  she  was  stupid. 
It  was  the  same  sort  of  taste,  Longmore  moralized,  as 
the  taste  for  Gerome  in  painting,  and  for  M.  Gustave 
* Flaubert  in  literature.  The  Baron  was  a pagan  and 
his  wife  was  a Christian,  and  between  them,  according- 
ly, was  a gulf.  He  was  by  race  and  instinct  a grand 
seigneur . Longmore  had  often  heard  of  this  distin- 
guished social  type,  and  was  properly  grateful  for  an 
opportunity  to  examine  it  closely.  It  had  certainly  a 
picturesque  boldness  of  outline,  but  it  was  fed  from 
spiritual  sources  so  remote  from  those  of  which  he  felt 
the  living  gush  in  his  own  soul,  that  he  found  himself 
gazing  at  it,  in  irreconcilable  antipathy,  across  a dim 
historic  mist.  “ I Tn  a modern  bourgeois ,”  he  said, 
“ and  not  perhaps  so  good  a judge  of  how  far  a pretty 
woman's  tongue  may  go  at  supper  without  prejudice  to 
her  reputation.  But  I 've  not  met  one  of  the  sweetest 
of  women  without  recognizing  her  and  discovering  that 
a certain  sort  of  character  offers  better  entertainment 
than  Theresa's  songs,  sung  by  a dissipated  duchess. 
Wit  for  wit,  I think  mine  carries  me  further."  It  was 
easy  indeed  to  perceive  that,  as  became  a grand  seig - 
l neur , M.  de  Mauves  had  a stock  of  rigid  notions.  He 
would  not  especially  have  desired,  perhaps,  that  his 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


411 


wife  should  compete  in  amateur  operettas  with  the 
duchesses  in  question,  chiefly  of  recent  origin  ; but  he 
held  that  a gentleman  may  take  his  amusement  where 
he  finds  it,  that  he  is  quite  at  liberty  not  to  find  it  at 
home ; and  that  the  wife  of  a De  Mauves  who  should 
hang  her  head  and  have  red  eyes,  and  allow  herself  to 
make  any  other  response  to  officious  condolence  than 
that  her  husband’s  amusements  were  his  own  affair, 
would  have  forfeited  every  claim  to  having  her  finger- 
tips bowed  over  and  kissed.  And  yet  in  spite  of  these 
sound  principles,  Longmore  fancied  that  the  Baron  was 
more  irritated  than  gratified  by  his  wife’s  irreproach- 
able reserve.  Did  it  dimly  occur  to  him  that  it  was 
self-control  and  not  self-effacement  ? She  was  a model 
to  all  the  inferior  matrons  of  his  line,  past  and  to  come, 
and  an  occasional  “ scene  ” from  her  at  a convenient 
moment  would  have  something  reassuring,  — would  at- 
test her  stupidity  a trifle  more  forcibly  than  her  inscru- 
table tranquillity. 

Longmore  would  have  given  much  to  know  the 
principle  of  her  submissiveness,  and  he  tried  more 
than  once,  but  with  rather  awkward  timidity,  to  sound 
the  mystery.  She  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  long  ' 
resisting  the  force  of  cruel  evidence,,  and,  though  she 
had  succumbed  to  it  at  last,  to  have  denied  herself 
the  right  to  complain,  because  if  faith  was  gone  her 
heroic  generosity  remained.  He  believed  even  that 


412 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


she  was  capable  of  reproaching  herself  with  having 
expected  too  much,  and  of  trying  to  persuade  herself 
out  of  her  bitterness  by  saying  that  her  hopes  had 
been  illusions  and  that  this  was  simply  — life.  “ I 
hate  tragedy/’  she  once  said  to  him ; “ I have  a really 
pusillanimous  dread  of  moral  suffering.  I believe  that 
— without  base  concessions  — there  is  always  some 
way  of  escaping  from  it.  I had  almost  rather  never 
smile  all  my  life  than  have  a single  violent  explosion 
of  grief.”  She  lived  evidently  in  nervous  apprehension 
of  being  fatally  convinced,  — of  seeing  to  the  end  of 
her  deception.  Longmore,  when  he  thought  of  this, 
felt  an  immense  longing  to  offer  her  something  of 
which  she  could  be  as  sure  as  of  the  sun  in  heaven. 


IY. 


IS  friend  Webster  lost  no  time  in  accusing  him 


J — L of  the  basest  infidelity,  and  asking  him  what  he 
found  at  Saint-Germain  to  prefer  to  Van  Eyck  and 
Hemling,  Rubens  and  Rembrandt.  A day  or  two  after 
the  receipt  of  Webster’s  letter,  he  took  a walk  with 
Madame  de  Mauves  in  the  forest.  They  sat  down  on 
a fallen  log,  and  she  began  to  arrange  into  a bou- 
quet the  anemones  and  violets  she  had  gathered.  “ I 
have  a letter,”  he  said  at  last,  “from  a friend  whom 
I some  time  ago  promised  to  join  at  Brussels.  The 
time  has  come,  — it  has  passed.  It  finds  me  terribly 
unwilling  to  leave  Saint-Germain.” 

She  looked  up  with  the  candid  interest  which  she 
always  displayed  in  his  affairs,  but  with  no  disposition, 
apparently,  to  make  a personal  application  of  his  words. 
“ Saint-Germain  is  pleasant  enough,”  she  said ; “ but 
are  you  doing  yourself  justice  ? Won’t  you  regret  in 
future  days  that  instead  of  travelling  and  seeing  cities 
and  monuments  and  museums  and  improving  your 
mind,  you  sat  here  — for  instance  — on  a log,  pulling 
my  flowers  to  pieces  ? ” 


414 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


“What  I shall  regret  in  future  days”  he  answered 
after  some  hesitation,  “ is  that  I should  have  sat  here 
and  not  spoken  the  truth  on  the  matter.  I am  fond 
of  museums  and  monuments  and  of  improving  my 
mind,  and  I ’in  particularly  fond  of  my  friend  Webster. 
But  I can’t  bring  myself  to  leave  Saint-Germain  with- 
out asking  you  a question.  You  must  forgive  me  if 
it ’s  unfortunate,  and  be  assured  that  curiosity  was 
never  more  respectful.  Are  you  really  as  unhappy  as 
I imagine  you  to  be  ? ” 

She  had  evidently  not  expected  his  question,  and 
she  greeted  it  with  a startled  blush.  “ If  I strike  you 
as  unhappy,”  she  said,  “I  have  been  a poorer  friend 
to  you  than  I wished  to  be.” 

“ I,  perhaps,  have  been  a better  friend  of  yours  than 
you  have  supposed.  I ’ve  admired  your  reserve,  your 
courage,  your  studied  gayety.  But  I have  felt  the 
existence  of  something  beneath  them  that  was  more 
yon  — more  you  as  I wished  to  know  you  — than  they 
were ; something  that  I have  believed  to  be  a constant 
sorrow.” 

She  listened  with  great  gravity,  but  without  an  air 
of  offence,  and  he  felt  that  while  he  had  been  timor- 
ously calculating  the  last  consequences  of  friendship, 
she  had  placidly  accepted  them.  “You  surprise  me,” 
she  said  slowly,  and  her  blush  still  lingered.  “ But 
to  refuse  to  answer  you  would  confirm  an  impression 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


415 


which  is  evidently  already  too  strong.  An  unhappi- 
ness that  one  can  sit  comfortably  talking  about,  is  an 
unhappiness  with  distinct  limitations.  If  I were  ex- 
amined before  a board  of  commissioners  for  investi- 
gating the  felicity  of  mankind,  I ’m  sure  I should  be 
pronounced  a very  fortunate  woman.” 

There  was  something  delightfully  gentle  to  him  in 
her  tone,  and  its  softness  seemed  to  deepen  as  she 
continued : “ But  let  me  add,  with  all  gratitude  for 
your  sympathy,  that  it's  my  own  affair  altogether. 
It  need  n’t  disturb  you,  Mr.  Longmore,  for  I have 
often  found  myself  in  your  company  a very  contented 
person.” 

“ You  ’re  a wonderful  woman,”  he  said,  “ and  I ad- 
mire you  as  I never  have  admired  any  one.  You  ’re 
wiser  than  anything  I,  for  one,  can  say  to  you ; and 
what  I ask  of  you  is  not  to  let  me  advise  or  console 
you,  but  simply  thank  you  for  letting  nfe  know  you.” 
He  had  intended  no  such  outburst  as  this,  but  his 
voice  rang  loud,  and  he  felt  a kind  of  unfamiliar  joy 
as  he  uttered  it. 

She  shook  her  head  with  some  impatience.  “Let 
us  be  friends,  — as  I supposed  we  were  going  to  be, — 
without  protestations  and  fine  words.  To  have  you 
making  bows  to  my  wisdom,  — that  would  be  real 
wretchedness.  I can  dispense  with  your  admiration 
better  than  the  Flemish  painters  can,- — better  than 


416 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


Van  Eyck  and  Rubens,  in  spite  of  all  their  worship- 
pers. Go  join  your  friend,  — see  everything,  enjoy 
everything,  learn  everything,  and  write  me  an  excel- 
lent letter,  brimming  over  with  your  impressions.  I ’m 
extremely  fond  of  the  Dutch  painters,”  she  added  with 
a slight  faltering  of  the  voice,  which  Longmore  had 
noticed  once  before,  and  which  he  had  interpreted  as 
the  sudden  weariness  of  a spirit  self-condemned  to  play 
a part. 

“ I don’t  believe  you  care  about  the  Dutch  painters 
at  all,”  he  said  with  an  unhesitating  laugh.  “ But  I 
shall  certainly  write  you  a letter.” 

She  rose  and  turned  homeward,  thoughtfully  re- 
arranging her  flowers  as  she  walked.  Little  was  said ; 
Longmore  was  asking  himself,  with  a tremor  in  the 
unspoken  words,  whether  all  this  meant  simply  that 
he  was  in  love.  He  looked  at  the  rooks  wheeling 
against  the  golden-hued  sky,  between  the  tree-tops, 
but  not  at  his  companion,  whose  personal  presence 
seemed  lost  in  the  felicity  she  had  created.  Madame 
de  Mauves  was  silent  and  grave,  because  she  was 
painfully  disappointed.  A sentimental  friendship  she 
had  not  desired;  her  scheme  had  been  to  pass  with 
Longmore  as  a placid  creature  with  a good  deal  of 
leisure,  which  she  was  disposed  to  devote  to  profitable 
conversation  of  an  impersonal  sort.  She  liked  him 
extremely,  and  felt  that  there  was  something  in  him 


MADAME  DE  MAUVE'S. 


417 


to  which,  when  she  made  up  her  girlish  mind  that  a 
needy  French  baron  was  the  ripest  fruit  of  time,  she 
had  done  very  scanty  justice.  They  went  through  the 
little  gate  in  the  garden  wall  and  approached  the 
house*  On  the  terrace  Madame  Clairin  was  entertain- 
ing a friend,  — a little  elderly  gentleman  with  a white 
mustache,  and  an  order  in  his  button-hole.  Madame 
de  Mauves  chose  to  pass  round  the  house  into  the 
court;  whereupon  her  sister-in-law,  greeting  Long- 
more  with  a commanding  nod,  lifted  her  eye-glass  and 
stared  at  them  as  they  went  by.  Longmore  heard 
the  little  old  gentleman  uttering  some  old-fashioned 
epigram  about  “la  vieille  galanterie  Frangaise,”  and 
then,  by  a sudden  impulse,  he  looked  at  Madame 
de  Mauves  and  wondered  what  she  was  doing  in  such 
a world.  She  stopped  before  the  house,  without  ask- 
ing him  to  come  in.  " I hope,”  she  said,  “ you  11  con- 
sider my  advice,  and  waste  no  more  time  at  Saint- 
Germain.” 

For  an  instant  there  rose  to  his  lips  some  faded 
compliment  about  his  time  not  being  wasted,  but  it 
expired  before  the  simple  sincerity  of  her  look.  She 
stood  there  as  gently  serious  as  the  angel  of  disin- 
terestedness, and  Longmore  felt  as  if  he  should  insult 
her  by  treating  her  words  as  a bait  for  flattery.  “I 
shall  start  in  a day  or  two,”  he  answered,  “ but  I won’t 
promise  you  not  to  come  back.” 

18*  AA 


418 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


“I  hope  not,”  she  said  simply.  “I  expect  to  be 
here  a long  time.” 

“I  shall  come  and  say  good  by,”  he  rejoined;  on 
which  she  nodded  with  a smile,  and  went  in. 

He  turned  away,  and  walked  slowly  homeward  by 
the  terrace.  It  seemed  to  him  that  to  leave  her  thus, 
for  a gain  on  which  she  herself  insisted,  was  to  know 
her  better  and  admire  her  more.  But  he  was  in  a 
vague  ferment  of  feeling  which  her  evasion  of  his 
question  half  an  hour  before  had  done  more  to  deepen 
than  to  allay.  Suddenly,  on  the  terrace,  he  encoun- 
tered M.  de  Mauves,  who  was  leaning  against  the 
parapet  finishing  a cigar.  The  Baron,  who,  he  fancied, 
had  an  air  of  peculiar  affability,  offered  him  his  fair, 
plump  hand.  Longmore  stopped;  he  felt  a sudden 
angry  desire  to  cry  out  to  him  that  he  had  the  love- 
liest wife  in  the  world ; that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  himself  not  to  know  it ; and  that  for  all  his  shrewd- 
ness he  had  never  looked  into  the  depths  of  her  eyes. 
The  Baron,  we  know,  considered  that  he  had ; but 
there  was  something  in  Euphemia’s  eyes  now  that  was 
not  there  five  years  before.  They  talked  for  a while 
about  various  things,  and  M.  de  Mauves  gave  a humor- 
ous account  of  his  visit  to  America.  His  tone  was 
not  soothing  to  Longrnore’s  excited  sensibilities.  He 
seemed  to  consider  the  country  a gigantic  joke,  and 
his  urbanity  only  went  so  far  as  to  admit  that  it  was 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


419 


not  a bad  one.  Longmore  was  not,  by  habit,  an  ag 
gressive  apologist  for  our  institutions ; but  the  Baron’s 
narrative  confirmed  his  worst  impressions  of  French 
superficiality.  He  had  understood  nothing,  he  had 
felt  nothing,  he  had  learned  nothing;  and  our  hero, 
glancing  askance  at  his  aristocratic  profile,  declared 
that  if  the  chief  merit  of  a long  pedigree  was  to 
leave  one  so  vaingloriously  stupid,  he  thanked  his  stars 
that  the  Longmores  had  emerged  from  obscurity  in 
the  present  century,  in  the  person  of  an  enterprising 
lumber  merchant.  M.  de  Mauves  dwelt  of  course  on 
that  prime  oddity  of  ours,  • — the  liberty  allowed  to 
young  girls ; and  related  the  history  of  his  researches 
into  the  “ opportunities  ” it  presented  to  French  noble- 
men, — researches  in  which,  during  a fortnight’s  stay, 
he  seemed  to  have  spent  many  agreeable  hours.  “I 
am  bound  to  admit,”  he  said,  “ that  in  every  case  I 
was  disarmed  by  the  extreme  candor  of  the  young 
lady,  and  that  they  took  care  of  themselves  to  better 
purpose  than  I have  seen  some  mammas  in  France 
take  care  of  them.”  Longmore  greeted  this  handsome 
concession  with  the  grimmest  of  smiles,  and  damned 
his  impertinent  patronage. 

Mentioning  at  last  that  he  was  about  to  leave  Saint- 
Germain,  he  was  surprised,  without  exactly  being  flat- 
tered, by  the  Baron’s  quickened  attention.  “ I ’m  very 
sorry,”  the  latter  cried.  “ I hoped  we  had  you  for  the 


420 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


summer.”  Longmore  murmured  something  civil,  and 
wondered  why  M.  de  Mauves  should  care  whether  he 
stayed  or  went.  “ You  were  a diversion  to  Madame  de 
Mauves,”  the  Baron  added.  “ I assure  you  I mentally 
blessed  your  visits.” 

“ They  were  a great  pleasure  to  me,”  Longmore  said 
gravely.  “ Some  day  I expect  to  come  back.” 

“ Pray  do,”  and  the  Baron  laid  his  hand  urgently  on 
his  arm.  “ You  see  I have  confidence  in  you  !”  Long- 
more  was  silent  for  a moment,  and  the  Baron  puffed 
his  cigar  reflectively  and  watched  the  smoke.  “ Ma- 
dame de  Mauves,”  he  said  at  last,  “ is  a rather  singular 
person.” 

Longmore  shifted  his  position,  and  wondered  wheth- 
er he  was  going  to  “ explain  ” Madame  de  Mauves. 

“ Being  as  you  are  her  fellow-countryman,”  the 
Baron  went  on,  “ I don’t  mind  speaking  frankly.  She ’s 
just  a little  morbid,  — the  most  charming  woman  in 
the  world,  as  you  see,  , but  a little  fanciful,  — a little 
exalt ee.  Now  you  see  she  has  taken  this  extraordinary 
fancy  for  solitude.  I can’t  get  her  to  go  anywhere, — 
to  see  any  one.  When  my  friends  present  themselves 
she ’s  polite,  but  she ’s  freezing.  She  does  n’t  do  her- 
self justice,  and  I expect  every  day  to  hear  two  or 
three  of  them  say  to  me,  ‘ Your  wife ’s  jolie  a croquer : 
what  a pity  she  has  n’t  a little  esprit .’  You  must 
have  found  out  that  she  has  really  a great  deal.  But 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


421 


to  tell  the  whole  truth,  what  she  needs  is  to  forget 
herself.  She  sits  alone  for  hours  poring  over  her 
English  books  and  looking  at  life  through  that  terrible 
brown  fog  which  they  always  seem  to  me  to  fling  over 
the  world.  I doubt  if  your  English  authors/'  the 
Baron  continued,  with  a serenity  which  Longmore 
afterwards  characterized  as  sublime,  “are  very  sound 
reading  .for  young  married  women.  I don’t  pretend  to 
know  much  about  them ; but  I remember  that,  not  long 
after  our  marriage,  Madame  de  Mauves  undertook  to 
read  me  one  day  a certain  Wordsworth,  — a poet  highly 
esteemed,  it  appears,  cliez  vous.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
she  took  me  by  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  forced  my 
head  for  half  an  hour  over  a basin  of  soupe  aux  choux, 
and  that  one  ought  to  ventilate  the  drawing-room  be- 
fore any  one  called.  But  I suppose  you  know  him,  — 
ce  gtnie  la.  I think  my  wife  never  forgave  me,  and 
that  it  was  a real  shock  to  her  to  find  she  had  married 
a man  who  had  very  much  the.  same  taste  in  literature 
as  in  cookery.  But  you  ’re  a man  of  general  culture,” 
said  the  Baron,  turning  to  Longmore  and  fixing  his 
eyes  on  the  seal  on  his  watch-guard.  “ You  can  talk 
about  everything,  and  I ’m  sure  you  like  Alfred  de 
Musset  as  well  ..  as  Wordsworth.  Talk  to  her  about 
everything,  Alfred  de  Musset  included.  Bah  ! I forgot 
you  ’re  going.  Come  back  then  as  soon  as  possible  and 
talk  about  your  travels.  If  Madame  de  Mauves  too 


422 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


would  travel  for  a couple  of  months,  it  would  do  her 
good.  It  would  enlarge  her  horizon,”  — and  M.  de 
Mauves  made  a series  of  short  nervous  jerks  with  his 
stick  in  the  air,  — “ it  would  wake  up  her  imagination. 
She ’s  too  rigid,  you  know,  — it  would  show  her  that 
one  may  bend  a trifle  without  breaking.”  He  paused 
a moment  and  gave  two  or  three  vigorous  puffs.  Then 
turning  to  his  companion  again,  with  a little  nod  and  a 
confidential  smile  : — “ I hope  you  admire  my  candor. 
I would  n’t  say  all  this  to  one  of  us” 

Evening  was  coming  on,  and  the  lingering  light 
seemed  to  float  in  the  air  in  faintly  golden  motes. 
Longmore  stood  gazing  at  these  luminous  particles ; he 
could  almost  have  fancied  them  a s\varm  of  humming 
insects,  murmuring  as  a refrain,  “ She  has  a great  deal 
of  esprit , — she  has  a great  deal  of  esprit .”  “ Yes,  she 

has  a great  deal,”  he  said  mechanically,  turning  to  the 
Baron.  M.  de  Mauves  glanced  at  him  sharply,  as  if  to 
ask  what  the  deuce  he  was  talking  about.  “ She  has 
a great  deal  of  intelligence,”  said  Longmore,  deliber- 
ately, “ a great  deal  of  beauty,  a great  many  virtues.” 

M.  de  Mauves  busied  himself  for  a moment  in  light- 
ing another  cigar,  and  when  he  had  finished,  with  a 
return  of  his  confidential  smile,  “ I suspect  you  of 
thinking,”  he  said,  “that  I don’t  do  my  wife  justice. 
Take  care,  — take  care,  young  man ; that ’s  a danger- 
ous assumption.  In  general,  a man  always  does  his 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


423 


wife*  justice.  More  than  justice,”  cried  the  Baron  with 
a laugh, — "that  we  keep  for  the  wives  of  other 
men ! ” 

Longmore  afterwards  remembered  it  in  favor  of  the 
Baron’s  grace  of  address  that  he  had  not  measured  at 
this  moment  the  dusky  abyss  over  which  it  hovered. 
But  a sort  of  deepening  subterranean  echo  lingered  on 
his  spiritual  ear.  For  the  present  his  keenest  sensa- 
tion was  a desire  to  get  away  and  cry  aloud  that  M.  de 
Mauves  was  an  arrogant  fool.  He  bade  him  an  abrupt 
good-night,  which  must  serve  also,  he  said,  as  good-by. 

“ Decidedly,  then,  you  go  ? ” said  M.  de  Mauves, 
almost  peremptorily. 

“ Decidedly.” 

“ Of  course  you  ’ll  come  and  say  good  by  to  Madame 
de  Mauves.”  His  tone  implied  that  the  omission  would 
be  most  uncivil ; but  there  seemed  to  Longmore  some- 
thing so  ludicrous  in  his  taking  a lesson  in  considera- 
tion from  M.  de  Mauves,  that  he  burst  into  a laugh. 
The  Baron  frowned,  like  a man  for  whom  it  was  a 
new  and  most  unpleasant  sensation  to  be  perplexed. 
“ You  ’re  a queer  fellow,”  he  murmured,  as  Longmore 
turned  away,  not  foreseeing  that  he  would  think  him 
a very  queer  fellow  indeed  before  he  had  done  with 
him. 

Longmore  sat  down  to  dinner  at  his  hotel  with  his 
usual  good  intentions ; but  as  he  was  lifting  his  first 


424 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


glass  of  wine  to  his  lips,  he  suddenly  fell  to  musing  and 
set  down  his  wine  untasted.  His  revery  lasted  long,  and 
when  he  emerged  from  it,  his  fish  was  cold  ; but  this 
mattered  little,  for  his  appetite  was  gone.  That  even- 
ing he  packed  his  trunk  with  a kind  of  indignant 
energy.  This  was  so  effective  that  the  operation  was 
accomplished  before  bedtime,  and  as  he  was  not  in  the 
least  sleepy,  he  devoted  the  interval  to  writing  two 
letters ; one  was  a short  note  to  Madame  de  Mauves, 
which  he  intrusted  to  a servant,  to  be  delivered  the 
next  morning.  He  had  found  it  best,  he  said,  to  leave 
Saint-Germain  immediately,  but  he  expected  to  be 
back  in  Paris  in  the  early  autumn.  The  other  letter 
was  the  result  of  his  having  remembered  a day  or 
two  before  that  he  had  not  yet  complied  with  Mrs. 
Draper’s  injunction  to  give  her  an  account  of  his 
impressions  of  her  friend.  The  present  occasion  seemed 
propitious,  and  he  wrote  half  a dozen  pages.  His 
tone,  however,  was  grave,  and  Mrs.  Draper,  on  receiv- 
ing them,  was  slightly  disappointed,  — she  would  have 
preferred  a stronger  flavor  of  rhapsody.  But  what 
chiefly  concerns  us  is  the  concluding  sentences. 

“ The  only  time  she  ever  spoke  to  me  of  her  mar- 
riage,” he  wrote,  “ she  intimated  that  it  had  been  a per- 
fect love-match.  With  all  abatements,  I suppose  most 
marriages  are  ; but  in  her  case  this  would  mean  more, 
I think,  than  in  that  of  most  women  ; for  her  love 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


425 


was  an  absolute  idealization.  She  believed  her  hus- 
band was  a hero  of  rose-colored  romance,  and  lie  turns 
out  to  be  not  even  a hero  of  very  sad-colored  reality. 
For  some  time  now  she  has  been  sounding  her  mis- 
take, but  I don’t  believe  she  has  touched  the  bottom 
of  it  yet.  She  strikes  me  as  a person  who  is  beg- 
ging off  from  full  knowledge,  — who  has  struck  a truce 


with  painful  truth,  and  is  trying  awhile  the  experi- 
ment of  living  with  closed  eyes.  In  the  dark  she 
tries  to  see  again  the  gilding  on  her  idol.  Illusion  of 
course  is  illusion,  and  one  must  always  pay  for  it ; j 
but  there  is  something  truly  tragical  in  seeing  an 

j 

earthly  penalty  levied  on  such  divine  folly  as  this.  I 
As  for  M.  de  Mauves,  he ’s  a Frenchman  to  his  fin- 
gers’ ends ; and  I confess  I should  dislike  him  for  this 
if  he  were  a much  better  man.  He  can’t  forgive  his 
wife  for  having  married  him  too  sentimentally  and 
loved  him  too  well ; for  in  some  uncorrupted  corner 
of  his  being  he  feels,  I suppose,  that  as  she  saw  him, 
so  he  ought  to  have  been.  It ’s  a perpetual  vexation 
to  him  that  a little  American  bourgeoise  should  have 


fancied  him  a finer  fellow  than  he  is,  or  than  he  at 
all  wants  to  be.  He  hasn’t  a glimmering  of  real 
acquaintance  with  his  wife ; he  can’t  understand  the 
stream  of  passion  flowing  so  clear  and  still.  To  tell 
the  truth,  I hardly  can  myself;  but  when  I see  the 
spectacle  I can  admire  it  furiously.  M.  de  Mauves, 


426 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


at  any  rate,  would  like  to  have  the  comfort  of  feel- 
ing that  his  wife  Was  as  corruptible  as  himself ; and 
you  11  hardly  believe  me  when  I tell  you  that  he 
goes  about  intimating  to  gentlemen  whom  he  deems 
worthy  of  the  knowledge,  that  it  would  be  a conven- 
ience to  him  to  have  them  make  love  to  her.” 


y. 


1ST  reaching  Paris,  Longmore  straightway  pur- 


vey chased  a Murray’s  “ Belgium,”  to  help  himself  to 
believe  that  he  would  start  on  the  morrow  for  Brussels; 
but  when  the  morrow  came,  it  occurred  to  him  that,  by 
way  of  preparation,  he  ought  to  acquaint  himself  more 
intimately  with  the  Flemish  painters  in  the  Louvre. 
This  took  a whole  morning,  but  it  did  little  to  hasten 
his  departure.  He  had  abruptly  left  Saint-Germain, 
because  it  seemed  to  him  that  respect  for  Madame  de 
Mauves  demanded  that  he  should  allow  her  husband 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  had  understood  him  ; but 
now  that  he  had  satisfied  this  immediate  need  of  deli- 
cacy, he  found  himself  thinking  more  and  more  ardent- 
ly of  Euphemia.  It  was  a poor  expression  of  ardor 
to  be  lingering  irresolutely  on  the  deserted  boulevards, 
but  he  detested  the  idea  of  leaving  Saint-Germain  five 
hundred  miles  behind  him.  He  felt  very  foolish,  nev- 
ertheless, and  wandered  about  nervously,  promising 
himself  to  take  the  next  train ; but  a dozen  trains 
started,  and  Longmore  was  still  in  Paris.  This  senti- 
mental tumult  was  more  than  he  had  bargained  for. 


423 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


and,  as  lie  looked  in  the  shop  windows,  he  wondered 
whether  it  was  a “ passion.”  He  had  never  been  fond 
of  the  word,  and  had  grown  up  with  a kind  of  horror 
of  what  it  represented.  He  had  hoped  that  when  he 
fell  in  love,  he  should  do  it  with  an  excellent  con- 
science, with  no  greater  agitation  than  a mild  general 
glow  of  satisfaction.  But  here  was  a sentiment  com- 
pounded of  pity  and  anger,  as  well  as  admiration,  and 
bristling  with  scruples  and  doubts.  He  had  come 
abroad  to  enjoy  the  Flemish  painters  and  all  others  ; 
but  what  fair-tressed  saint  of  Van  Eyck  or  Memling 
was  so  appealing  a figure  as  Madame  de  Mauves?  His 
restless  steps  carried  him  at  last  out  of  the  long  villa- 
bordered  avenue  which  leads  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Summer  had  fairly  begun,  and  the  drive  beside  the 
lake  was  empty,  but  there  were  various  loungers  on 

the  benches  and  chairs,  and  the  great  cafe  had  an  air 

* 

of  animation.  Longmore’s  walk  had  given  him  an  ap- 
petite, and  he  went  into  the  establishment  and  de- 
manded a dinner,  remarking  for  the  hundredth  time,  as 
he  observed  the  smart  little  tables  disposed  in  the  open 
air,  how  much  better  they  ordered  this  matter  in 
France. 

“ Will  monsieur  dine  in  the  garden,  or  in  the  salon  ? ” 
asked  the  waiter.  Long  more  chose  the  garden ; and 
observing  that  a great  vine  of  June  roses  was  trained 
over  the  wall  of  the  house,  placed  himself  at  a table 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


429 


near  by,  where  the  best  of  dinners  was  served  him  on 
the  whitest  of  linen,  in  the  most  shining  of  porcelain. 
It  so  happened  that  his  table  was  near  a window, 
and  that  as  he  sat  he  could  look  into  a corner  of  the 
salon.  So  it  was  that  his  attention  rested  on  a lady 
seated  just  within  the  window,  which  was  open,  face 
to  face  apparently  to  a companion  who  was  concealed 
by  the  curtain.  She  was  a very  pretty  woman,  and 
Longmore  looked  at  her  as  often  as  was  consistent 
with  good  manners.  After  a while  he  even  began 
to  wonder  who  she  was,  and  to  suspect  that  she  was 
one  of  those  ladies  whom  it  is  no  breach  of  good  man- 
ners to  look  at  as  often  as  you  like.  Longmore,  too, 
if  he  had  been  so  disposed,  would  have  been  the  more 
free  to  give  her  all  his  attention,  that  her  own  was 
fixed  upon  the  person  opposite  to  her.  She  was  what 
the  French  call  a belle  brune , and  though  our  hero,  who 
had  rather  a conservative  taste  in  such  matters,  had  no 
great  relish  for  her  bold  outlines  and  even  bolder  color- 
ing, he  could  not  help  admiring  her  expression  of  bask- 
ing contentment. 

She  was  evidently  very  happy,  and  her  happiness 
gave  her  an  air  of  innocence.  The  talk  of  her  friend, 
whoever  he  was,  abundantly  suited  her  humor,  for  she 
sat  listening  to  him  with  a broad,  lazy  smile,  and  inter- 
rupted him  occasionally,  while  she  crunched  her  bon- 
bons, with  a murmured  response,  presumably  as  broad. 


430 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


which  seemed  to  deepen  his  eloquence.  She  drank  a 
great  deal  of  champagne  and  ate  an  immense  number 
of  strawberries,  and  was  plainly  altogether  a person 
with  an  impartial  relish  for  strawberries,  champagne, 
and  what  she  would  have  called  betises. 

They  had  half  finished  dinner  when  Longmore  sat 
down,  and  he  was  still  in  his  place  when  they  rose. 
She  had  hung  her  bonnet  on  a nail  above  her  chair, 
and  her  companion  passed  round  the  table  to  take  it 
down  for  her.  As  he  did  so,  she  bent  her  head  to 
look  at  a wine  stain  on  her  dress,  and  in  the  move- 
ment exposed  the  greater  part  of  the  back  of  a very 
handsome  neck.  The  gentleman  observed  it,  and  ob- 
served also,  apparently,  that  the  room  beyond  them 
was  empty;  that  he  stood  within  eyeshot  of  Long- 
more,  he  failed  to  observe.  He  stooped  suddenly  and 
imprinted  a gallant  kiss  on  the  fair  expanse.  Long- 
more  then  recognized  M.  de  Mauves.  The  recipient  of 
this  vigorous  tribute  put  on  her  bonnet,  using  his  flushed 
smile  as  a mirror,  and  in  a moment  they  passed 
through  the  garden,  on  their  way  to  their  carriage. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  M.  de  Mauves  perceived 
Longmore.  He  measured  with  a rapid  glance  the 
young  man’s  relation  to  the  open  window,  and  checked 
himself  in  the  impulse  to  stop  and  speak  to  him.  He 
contented  himself  with  bowing  with  great  gravity  as 
lie  opened  the  gate  for  his  companion. 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


431 


That  evening  Longmore  made  a railway  journey, 
but  not  to  Brussels.  He  had  effectually  ceased  to 
care  about  Brussels  ; the  only  thing  he  now  cared 
about  was  Madame  de  Mauves.  The  atmosphere  of 
his  mind  had  had  a sudden  clearing  up;  pity  and 
anger  were  still  throbbing  there,  but  they  had  space 
to  rage  at  their  pleasure,  for  doubts  and  scruples  had 
abruptly  departed.  It  was  little,  he  felt,  that  he 
could  interpose  between  her  resignation  and  the  un- 
sparing harshness  of  her  position;  but  that  little,  if 
it  involved  the  sacrifice  of  everything  that  bound 
him  to  the  tranquil  past,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  offer  her  with  a rapture  which  at  last  made 
reflection  a wofully  halting  substitute  for  faith.  Noth- 
ing in  his  tranquil  past  had  given  such  a zest  to 
consciousness  as  the  sense  of  tending  with  all  his 
being  to  a single  aim  which  bore  him  company  on 
his  journey  to  Saint-Germain.  How  to  justify  his 
return,  how  to  explain  his  ardor,  troubled  him  little. 
He  was  not  sure,  even,  that  he  wished  to  be  under- 
stood ; he  wished  only  to  feel  that  it  was  by  no  fault 
of  his  that  Madame  de  Mauves  was  alone  with  the  ug- 
liness of  fate.  He  was  conscious  of  no  distinct  desire 
to  “ make  love  ” to  her ; if  he  could  have  uttered  the 
essence  of  his  longing,  he  would  have  said  that  he 
wished  her  to  remember  that  in  a world  colored  gray 
to  her  vision  by  disappointment,  there  was  one  vividly; 


432 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


honest  man.  She  might  certainly  have  remembered 
it,  however,  without  his  coming  back  to  remind  her; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that,  as  he  packed  his  valise 
that  evening,  he  wished  immensely  to  hear  the  sound 
of  her  voice. 

He  waited  the  next  day  till  his  usual  hour  of  call- 
ing, — the  late  afternoon ; but  he  learned  at  the  door 
that  Madame  de  Mauves  was  not  at  home.  The  ser- 
vant offered  the  information  that  she  was  walking  in 
the  forest.  Longmore  went  through  the  garden  and 
out  of  the  little  door  into  the  lane,  and,  after  half  an 
hour’s  vain  exploration,  saw  her  coming  toward  him 
at  the  end  of  a •green  by-path.  As  he  appeared,  she 
stopped  for  a moment,  as  if  to  turn  aside;  then  rec- 
ognizing him,  she  slowly  advanced,  and  he  was  soon 
shaking  hands  with  her. 

"Nothing  has  happened,”  she  said,  looking  at  him 
fixedly.  “ You  ’re  not  ill  ? ” 

"Nothing,  except  that  when  I got  to  Paris  I found 
how  fond  I had  grown  of  Saint-Germain.” 

She  neither  smiled  nor  looked  flattered;  it  seemed 
indeed  to  Longmore  that  she  was  annoyed.  But  he 
was  uncertain,  for  he  immediately  perceived  that  in 
his  absence  the  whole  character  of  her  face  had  al- 
tered. It  told  him  that  something  momentous  had 
happened.  It  was  no  longer  self-contained  melan- 
choly that  he  read  in  her  eyes,  but  grief  and  agita- 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


433 


tion  which  had  lately  struggled  with  that  passionate 
love  of  peace  of  which  she  had  spoken  to  him,  and 
forced  it  to  know  that  deep  experience  is  never  peace- 
ful. She  was  pale,  and  she  had  evidently  been  shed- 
ding tears.  He  felt  his  heart  beating  hard ; he  seemed 
now  to  know  her  secrets.  She  continued  to  look  at 
him  with  a contracted  brow,  as  if  his  return  had  given 
her  a sense  of  responsibility  too  great  to  be  disguised 
by  a commonplace  welcome.  For  some  moments,  as 
he  turned  and  walked  beside  her,  neither  spoke ; then 
abruptly,  — “Tell  me  truly,  Mr.  Longmore,”  she  said, 
“why  you  have  come  back.” 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  an  air  which 
startled  her  into  a certainty  of  what  she  had  feared. 
“Because  I’ve  learned  the  real  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion I asked  you  the  other  day.  You  ’re  not  happy,  — 
you  ’re  too  good  to  be  happy  on  the  terms  offered  you. 
Madame  de  Mauves,”  he  went  on  with  a gesture  which 
protested  against  a gesture  of  her  own,  “I  can’t  be 
happy  if  you  ’re  not.  I don’t  care  for  anything  so  long 
as  I see  such  a depth  of  unconquerable  sadness  in  your 
eyes.  I found  during  three  dreary  days  in  Paris  that 
the  thing  in  the  world  I most  care  for  is  this  daily 
privilege  of  seeing  you.  I know  it ’s  absolutely  brutal 
to  tell  you  I admire  you  ; it ’s  an  insult  to  you  to  treat 
you  as  if  you  had  complained  to  me  or  appealed  to  me. 
But  such  a friendship  as  I waked  up  to  there  ” — and  he 

19 


BB 


434 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


tossed  his  head  toward  the  distant  city  — “ is  a potent 
force,  I assure  you;  and  when  forces  are  compressed 
they  explode.  But  if  you  had  told  me  every  trouble  in 
your  heart,  it  would  have  mattered  little  ; I could  n’t 
say  more  than  I must  say  now,  — that  if  that  in  life 
from  which  you ’ve  hoped  most  has  given  you  least, 
my  devoted  respect  will  refuse  no  service  and  betray 
no  trust.,, 

She  had  begun  to  make  marks  in  the  earth  with  the 
point  of  her  parasol ; but  she  stopped  and  listened  to 
him  in  perfect  immobility.  Bather,  her  immobility 
was  not  perfect ; for  when  he  stopped  speaking  a faint 
flush  had  stolen  into  her  cheek.  It  told  Longmore 
that  she  was  moved,  and  his  first  perceiving  it  was  the 
happiest  instant  of  his  life.  She  raised  her  eyes  at 
last,  and  looked  at  him  with  what  at  first  seemed  a 
pleading  dread  of  excessive  emotion. 

“ Thank  you — thank  you!”  she  said,  calmly  enough; 
but  the  next  moment  her  own  emotion  overcame  her 
calmness,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  Her  tears  vanished 
as  quickly  as  they  came,  but  they  did  Longmore  a 
world  of  good.  He  had  always  felt  indefinably  afraid 
of  her ; her  being  had  somehow  seemed  fed  by  a deeper 
faith  and  a stronger  will  than  his  own ; but  her  half- 
dozen  smothered  sobs  showed  him  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  and  assured  him  that  she  was  weak  enough  to  be 
grateful. 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


435 


“ Excuse  me,”  she  said ; “ I ’m  too  nervous  to  listen 
to  you.  I believe  I could  have  faced  an  enemy  to-day, 
but  I can’t  endure  a friend.” 

“ You  ’re  killing  yourself  with  stoicism,  — that ’s  my 
belief,”  he  cried.  “ Listen  to  a friend  for  his  own  sake, 
if  not  for  yours.  I have  never  ventured  to  offer  you 
an  atom  of  compassion,  and  you  can’t  accuse  yourself 
of  an  abuse  of  charity.” 

She  looked  about  her  with  a kind  of  weary  con- 
fusion which  promised  a reluctant  attention.  But  sud- 
denly perceiving  by  the  wayside  the  fallen  log  on 
which  they  had  rested  a few  evenings  before,  she  went 
and  sat  down  on  it  in  impatient  resignation,  and  looked 
at  Longmore,  as  he  stood  silent,  watching  her,  with  a 
glance  which  seemed  to  urge  that,  if  she  was  charita- 
ble now,  he  must  be  very  wise. 

“ Something  came  to  my  knowledge  yesterday,”  he 
said  as  he  sat  down  beside  her,  “ which  gave  me  a su- 
preme sense  of  your  moral  isolation.  You  are  truth 
itself,  and  there  is  no  truth  about  you.  You  believe  in 
purity  and  duty  and  dignity,  and  you  live  in  a world 
in  which  they  are  daily  belied.  I sometimes  ask  my- 
self with  a kind  of  rage  how  you  ever  came  into  such 
a world,  — and  why  the  perversity  of  fate  never  let  me 
know  you  before.” 

“ I like  my  ‘ world’  no  better  than  you  do,  and  it  was 
not  for  its  own  sake  I came  into  it.  But  what  par- 


436 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


ticular  group  of  people  is  worth  pinning  one’s  faith 
upon  ? I confess  it  sometimes  seems  to  me  that  men 
and  women  are  very  poor  creatures.  I suppose  I ’m 
romantic.  I have  a most  unfortunate  taste  for  poetic 
fitness.  Life  is  hard  prose,  which  one  must  learn  to 
read  contentedly.  I believe  I once  thought  that  all 
the  prose  was  in  America,  which  was  very  foolish. 
What  I thought,  what  I believed,  what  I expected, 
when  I was  an  ignorant  girl,  fatally  addicted  to  falling 
in  love  with  my  own  theories,  is  more  than  I can  begin 
to  tell  you  now.  Sometimes,  when  I remember  certain 
impulses,  certain  illusions  of  those  days,  they  take 
away  my  breath,  and  I wonder  my  bedazzled  visions 
did  n’t  lead  me  into  troubles  greater  than  any  I have 
now  to  lament.  I had  a conviction  which  you  would 
probably  smile  at  if  I were  to  attempt  to  express  it  to 
you.  It  was  a singular  form  for  passionate  faith  to 
take,  but  it  had  all  of  the  sweetness  and  the  ardor  of 
passionate  faith.  It  led  me  to  take  a great  step,  and 
it  lies  behind  me  now  in  the  distance  like  a shadow 
melting  slowly  in  the  light  of  experience.  It  has 
faded,  but  it  has  not  vanished.  Some  feelings,  I am 
sure,  die  only  with  ourselves ; some  illusions  are  as 
much  the  condition  of  our  life  as  our  heart-beats. 
They  say  that  life  itself  is  an  illusion,  — that  this 
world  is  a shadow  of  which  the  reality  is  yet  to  come. 
Life  is  all  of  a piece,  then,  and  there  is  no  shame  in 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


437 


being  miserably  human.  As  for  my  c isolation/  it 
does  n’t  greatly  matter ; it ’s  the  fault,  in  part,  of  my 
obstinacy.  There  have  been  times  when  I have  been 
frantically  distressed,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  wretch- 
edly homesick,  because  my  maid  — a jewel  of  a maid* 
— lied  to  me  with  every  second  breath.  There  have 
been  moments  when  I have  wished  I was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a poor  New  England  minister,  living  in  a little 
white  house  under  a couple  of  elms,  and  doing  all  the 
housework.” 

She  had  begun  to  speak  slowly,  with  an  air  of 
effort ; but  she  went  on  quickly,  as  if  talking  were  a 
relief.  “ My  marriage  introduced  me  to  people  and 
things  which  seemed  to  me  at  first  very  strange  and 
then  very  horrible,  and  then,  to  tell  the  truth,  very 
contemptible.  At  first  I expended  a great  deal  of 
sorrow  and  dismay  and  pity  on  it  all  ; but  there 
soon  came  a time  when  I began  to  wonder  whether 
it  was  worth  one’s  tears.  If  I could  tell  you  the 
eternal  friendships  I ’ve  seen  broken,  the  inconsolable 
woes  consoled,  the  jealousies  and  vanities  leading  off 
the  dance,  you  would  agree  with  me  that  tempers  like  j 
yours  and  mine  can  understand  neither  such  losses  nor 
such  compensations.  A year  ago,  while  I was  in  the 
country,  a friend  of  mine  was  in  despair  at  the  infi- 
delity of  her  husband ; she  wrote  me  a most  tragical 
letter,  and  on  my  return  to  Paris  I went  immediately 


438 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


to  see  her.  A week  had  elapsed,  and,  as  I had  seen 
stranger  things,  I thought  she  might  have  recovered 
her  spirits.  Not  at  all ; she  was  still  in  despair,  — but 
at  what  ? At  the  conduct,  the  abandoned,  shameless 
conduct  of  Mme.  de  T.  You  ’ll  imagine,  of  course, 
that  Mme.  de  T.  was  the  lady  whom  my  friend’s  hus- 
band preferred  to  his  wife.  Far  from  it ; he  had 
never  seen  her.  Who,  then,  was  Mme.  de  T.  ? Mme. 
de  T.  was  cruelly  devoted  to  M.  de  Y.  And  who  was 
M.  de  Y.  ? M.  de  Y.  — in  two  words,  my  friend  was 
cultivating  two  jealousies  at  once.  I hardly  know 
what  I said  to  her ; something,  at  any  rate,  that  she 
found  unpardonable,  for  she  quite  gave  me  up. 
Shortly  afterward  my  husband  proposed  we  should 
cease  to  live  in  Paris,  and  I gladly  assented,  for  I 
believe  I was  falling  into  a state  of  mind  that  made 
me  a detestable  companion.  I should  have  preferred 
to  go  quite  into  the  country,  into  Auvergne,  where  my 
husband  has  a place.  But  to  him  Paris,  in  some  degree, 
is  necessary,  and  Saint-Germain  has  been  a sort  of 
compromise.” 

“ A sort  of  compromise  ! ” Longmore  repeated. 
“ That ’s  your  whole  life.” 

“ It ’s  the  life  of  many  people,  of  most  people  of 
quiet  tastes,  and  it  is  certainly  better  than  acute  dis- 
tress. One  is  at  loss  theoretically  to  defend  a compro- 
mise ; but  if  I found  a poor  creature  clinging  to  one 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


439 


from  day  to  day,  I should  think  it  poor  friendship  to 
make  him  lose  his  hold.”  Madame  de  Mauves  had 
no  sooner  uttered  these  words  than  she  smiled  faintly, 
as  if  to  mitigate  their  personal  application. 

“ Heaven  forbid,”  said  Longmore,  “ that  one  should 
do  that  unless  one  has  something  better  to  offer.  And 
yet  I am  haunted  by  a vision  of  a life  in  which  you 
should  have  found  no  compromises,  for  they  are  a per- 
version of  natures  that  tend  only  to  goodness  and  rec- 
titude. As  I see  it,  you  should  have  found  happiness 
serene,  profound,  complete  ; a femme  de  chambre  not  a 
jewel  perhaps,  but  warranted  to  tell  but  one  fib  a day  ; 
a society  possibly  rather  provincial,  but  (in  spite  of 
your  poor  opinion  of  mankind)  a good  deal  of  solid 
virtue  ; jealousies  and  vanities  very  tame,  and  no  par- 
ticular  iniquities  and  adulteries.  A husband,”  he  added  j 
after  a moment,  — “ a husband  of  your  own  faith  and 
race  and  spiritual  substance,  who  would  have  loved 
you  well.” 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  shaking  her  head.  “ You  are  very 
kind  to  go  to  the  expense  of  visions  for  me.  Visions 
are  vain  things  ; we  must  make  the  best  of  the  reality.” 

“ And  yet,”  said  Longmore,  provoked  by  what  seemed 
the  very  wantonness  of  her  patience,  “the  reality,  if 
I ’m  not  mistaken,  has  very  recently  taken  a shape 
that  keenly  tests  your  philosophy.” 

She  seemed  on  the  point  of  replying  that  his  sym- 


Ui^^vX^ 

440  MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 

pathy  was  too  zealous ; but  a couple  of  impatient  tears 
in  his  eyes  proved  that  it  was  founded  on  a devotion 
to  which  it  was  impossible  not  to  defer.  “ Philoso- 
phy ? ” she  said.  “ I have  none.  Thank  Heaven  ! ” she 
cried,  with  vehemence,  “ I have  none.  I believe,  Mr. 
Longmore,”  she  added  in  a moment,  “ that  I have 
nothing  on  earth  but  a conscience,  — it ’s  a good  time 
to  tell  you  so,  — nothing  but  a dogged,  clinging,  inex- 
pugnable conscience.  Does  that  prove  me  to  be. indeed 
of  your  faith  and  race,  and  have  you  one  for  which 
you  can  say  as  much  ? I don’t  say  it  in  vanity,  for 
I believe  that  if  my  conscience  will  prevent  me  from 
doing  anything  very  base,  it  will  effectually  prevent 
me  from  doing  anything  very  fine.” 

“ I am  delighted  to  hear  it,”  cried  Longmore.  “ We 
are  made  fot  each  other.  It ’s  very  certain  I too  shall 
never  do  anything  fine.  And  yet  I have  fancied  that 
in  my  case  this  inexpugnable  organ  you  so  eloquently 
describe  might  be  blinded  and  gagged  awhile,  in  a fine 
cause,  if  not  turned  out  of  doors.  In  yours,”  he  went 
on  with  the  same  appealing  irony,  “is  it  absolutely 
invincible  ? ” 

But  her  fancy  made  no  concession  to  his  sarcasm. 
“ Don’t  laugh  at  your  conscience,”  she  answered  grave- 
ly ; “ that ’s  the  only  blasphemy  I know.” 

She  had  hardly  spoken  when  she  turned  suddenly 
at  an  unexpected  sound,  and  at  the  same  moment 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


441 


Longmore  heard  a footstep  in  an  adjacent  by-path 
which  crossed  their  own  at  a short  distance  from 
where  they  stood. 

“ It ’s  M.  de  Mauves,”  said  Euphemia  directly,  and 

moved  slowly  forward.  Longmore,  wondering  how  she 

knew  it,  had  overtaken  her  by  the  time  her  husband 

advanced  into  sight.  A solitary  walk  in  the  forest  was 

a pastime  to  which  M.  de  Mauves  was  not  addicted, 

but  he  seemed  on  this  occasion  to  have  resorted  to  it 

with  some  equanimity.  He  was  smoking  a fragrant 

cigar,  and  his  thumb  was  thrust  into  the  armhole  of 

his  waistcoat,  with  an  air  of  contemplative  serenity. 

He  stopped  short  with  surprise  on  seeing  his  wife  and 

her  companion,  and  Longmore  considered  his  surprise 
% 

impertinent.  He  glanced  rapidly  from  one  to  the 
other,  fixed  Longmore’s  eye  sharply  for  a single  in- 
stant, and  then  lifted  his  hat  with  formal  politeness. 

“I  was  not  aware/’  he  said,  turning,  to  Madame  de 
Mauves,  “ that  I might  congratulate  you  on  the  return 
of  monsieur.” 

“ You  should  have  known  it,”  she  answered  gravely, 
“ if  I had  expected  Mr.  Longmore’s  return.” 

She  had  become  very  pale,  and  Longmore  felt  that 
this  was  a first  meeting  after  a stormy  parting.  “ My 
return  was  unexpected  to  myself,”  he  said.  “ I came 
last  evening.” 

M.  de  Mauves  smiled  with  extreme  urbanity.  “ It ’s 

19* 


442 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


needless  for  me  to  welcome  yon.  Madame  de  Mauves 
knows  the  duties  of  hospitality.,,  And  with  another 
bow  he  continued  his  walk. 

Madame  de  Mauves  and  her  companion  returned 
slowly  home,  with  few  words,  but,  on  Longmore’s  part 
at  least,  many  thoughts.  The  Baron’s  appearance  had 
given  him  an  angry  chill ; it  was  a dusky  cloud  re- 
absorbing the  light  which  had  begun  to  shine  between 
himself  and  his  companion. 

He  watched  Euphemia  narrowly  as  they  went,  and 
wondered  what  she  had  last  had  to  suffer.  Her  hus- 
band’s presence  had  checked  her  frankness,  but  nothing 
indicated  that  she  had  accepted  the  insulting  meaning 
of  his  words.  Matters  were  evidently  at  a crisis  be- 
tween them,  and  Longmore  wondered  vainly  what  it 
was  on  Euphemia’s  part  that  prevented  an  absolute 
rupture.  What  did  she  suspect  ? — how  much  did  she 
know  ? To  what  was  she  resigned  ? — how  much  had 
she  forgiven  ? How,  above  all,  did  she  reconcile  with 
knowledge,  or  with  suspicion,  that  ineradicable  tender- 
ness of  which  she  had  just  now  all  but  assured  him  ? 
“ She  has  loved  him  once,”  Longmore  said  with  a sink- 
ing of  the  heart,  “ and  with  her  to  love  once  is  to  com- 
mit one’s  being  forever.  Her  husband  thinks  her  too 
rigid  ! What  would  a poet  call  it  ? ” 

He  relapsed  with  a kind  of  aching  impotence  into 
the  sense  of  her  being  somehow  beyond  him,  unattaina- 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


443 


ble,  immeasurable  by  his  own  fretful  spirit.  Suddenly 
he  gave  three  passionate  switches  in  the  air  with  his 
cane,  which  made  Madame  de  Mauves  look  round. 
She  could  hardly  have  guessed  that  they  meant  that 
where  ambition  was  so  vain,  it  was  an  innocent  com- 
pensation to  plunge  into  worship. 

Madame  de  Mauves  found  in  her  drawing-room  the 
little  elderly  Frenchman,  M.  de  Chalumeau,  whom 
Longmore  had  observed  a few  days  before  on  the  ter- 
race. On  this  occasion,  too,  Madame  Clairin  was  en- 
tertaining him,  but  as  his  sister-in-law  came  in  she 
surrendered  her  post  and  addressed  herself  to  our  hero. 
Longmore,  at  thirty,  was  still  an  ingenuous  youth, 
and  there  was  something  in  this  lady’s  large  coquetry 
which  had  the  power  of  making  him  blush.  He  was 
surprised  at  finding  he  had  not  absolutely  forfeited  her 
favor  by  his  deportment  at  their  last  interview,  and  a 
suspicion  of  her  meaning  to  approach  him  on  another 
line  completed  his  uneasiness. 

“ So  you Ve  returned  from  Brussels,”  she  said,  “ by 
way  of  the  forest.” 

“ I Ve  not  been  to  Brussels.  I returned  yesterday 
from  Paris  by  the  only  way,  — by  the  train.” 

Madame  Clairin  stared  and  laughed.  “ I Ve  never 
known  a young  man  to  be  so  fond  of  Saint-Germain. 
They  generally  declare  it’s  horribly  dull.” 

“ That ’s  not  very  polite  to  you,”  said  Longmore,  who 


444 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


was  vexed  at  his  blushes,  and  determined  not  to  be 
abashed. 

“ Ah,  what  am  I ? ” demanded  Madame  Clairin, 
swinging  open  her  fan.  “ I ’m  the  dullest  thing  here. 
They ’ve  not  had  your  success  with  my  sister-in-law.,, 

“It  would  have  been  very  easy  to  have  it.  Ma- 
dame de  Mauves  is  kindness  itself.” 

“ To  her  own  countrymen  ! ” 

Longmore  remained  silent ; he  hated  the  talk.  Ma- 
dame Clairin  looked  at  him  a moment,  and  then  turned 
her  head  and  surveyed  Euphemia,  to  whom  M.  de  Cha- 
lumeau  was  serving  up  another  epigram,  which  she 
was  receiving  with  a slight  droop  of  the  head  and  her 
eyes  absently  wandering  through  the  window.  “ Don’t 
pretend  to  tell  me,”  she  murmured  suddenly,  “that 
you  ’re  not  in  love  with  that  pretty  woman.” 

“ Allons  done  /”  cried  Longmore,  in  the  best  French 
he  had  ever  uttered.  He  rose  the  next  minute,  and 
took  a hasty  farewell. 


VI. 


E allowed  several  days  to  pass  without  going 


_1 — L back ; it  seemed  delicate  not  to  appear  to  re- 
gard his  friend’s  frankness  during  their  last  interview 
as  a general  invitation.  This  cost  him  a great  effort, 
for  hopeless  passions  are  not  the  most  deferential ; and 
he  had,  moreover,  a constant  fear,  that  if,  as  he  be- 
lieved, the  hour  of  supreme  “ explanations  ” had  come, 
the  magic  of  her  magnanimity  might  convert  M.  de 
Mauves.  Vicious  men,  it  was  abundantly  recorded, 
had  been  so  converted  as  to  be  acceptable  to  God, 
and  the  something  divine  in  Euphemia’s  temper  would 
sanctify  any  means  she  should  choose  to  employ.  Her 
means,  he  kept  repeating,  were  no  business  of  his,  and 
the  essence  of  his  admiration  ought  to  be  to  respect  her 
freedom ; but  he  felt  as  if  he  should  turn  away  into  a 
world  out  of  which  most  of  the  joy  had  departed,  if 
her  freedom,  after  all,  should  spare  him  only  a mur- 
mured “ Thank  you.” 

When  he  called  again  he  found  to  his  vexation  that 
he  was  to  run  the  gantlet  of  Madame  Clairin’s  officious 
hospitality.  It  was  one  of  the  first  mornings  of  per- 


446 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


feet  summer,  and  the  drawing-room,  through  the  open 
windows,  was  flooded  with  a sweet  confusion  of  odors 
and  bird-notes  which  filled  him  with  the  hope  that 
Madame  de  Mauves  would  come  out  and  spend  half 
the  day  in  the  forest.  But  Madame  Clairin,  with  her 
hair  not  yet  dressed,  emerged  like  a brassy  discord  in  a 
maze  of  melody. 

At  the  same  moment  the  servant  returned  with  Eu- 
phemia’s  regrets  ; she  was  indisposed  and  unable  to  see 
Mr.  Longmore.  The  young  man  knew  that  he  looked 
disappointed,  and  that  Madame  Clairin  was  observing 
him,  and  this  consciousness  impelled  her  to  give  him  a 
glance  of  almost  aggressive  frigidity.  This  was  appar- 
ently what  she  desired.  She  wished  to  throw  him  off 
his  balance,  and,  if  he  was  not  mistaken,  she  had  the 
means. 

“ Put  down  your  hat,  Mr.  Longmore,”  she  said,  “ and 
be  polite  for  once.  You  were  not  at  all  polite  the 
other  day  when  I asked  you  that  friendly  question 
about  the  state  of  your  heart.” 

“ I have  no  heart  — to  talk  about,”  said  Longmore, 
uncompromisingly. 

“ As  well  say  you  ’ve  none  at  all.  I advise  you  to 
cultivate  a little  eloquence ; you  may  have  use  for  it. 
That  was  not  an  idle  question  of  mine  ; I don’t  ask 
idle  questions.  For  a couple  of  months  now  that 
you ’ve  been  coming  and  going  among  us,  it  seems  to 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


447 


me  that  you  have  had  very  few  to  answer  of  any 
sort.” 

“ I have  certainly  been  very  well  treated  ,”  said 
Longmore. 

Madame  Clairin  was  silent  a moment,  and  then  — 
“ Have  you  never  felt  disposed  to  ask  any  ? ” she 
demanded. 

Her  look,  her  tone,  were  so  charged  with  roundabout 
meanings  that  it  seemed  to  Longmore  as  if  even  to 
understand  her  would  savor  of  dishonest  complicity. 
“ What  is  it  you  have  to  tell  me  ? ” he  asked,  frowning 
and  blushing. 

Madame  Clairin  flushed.  It  is  rather  hard,  when 
you  come  bearing  yourself  very  much  as  the  sibyl 
when  she  came  to  the  Roman  king,  to  be  treated  as 
something  worse  than  a vulgar  gossip.  “ I might  tell 
you,  Mr.  Longmore,”  she  said,  “ that  you  have  as  bad 
a ton  as  any  young  man  I ever  met.  Where  have  you 
lived,  — what  are  your  ideas  ? I wish  to  call  your 
attention  to  a fact  which  it  takes  some  delicacy  to 
touch  upon.  You  have  noticed,  I supposed,  that  my 
sister-in-law  is  not  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world.” 

Longmore  assented  with  a gesture. 

Madame  Clairin  looked  slightly  disappointed  at  his 
want  of  enthusiasm.  Nevertheless — "You  have  formed, 
I suppose,”  she  continued,  “ your  conjectures  on  the 
causes  of  her  — dissatisfaction.” 


448 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


<€  Conjecture  has  been  superfluous.  I have  seen  the 
causes  — or  at  least  a specimen  of  them  — with  my 
own  eyes.” 

“ I know  perfectly  what  you  mean.  My  brother,  in 
a single  word,  is  in  love  with  another  woman.  I don’t 
judge  him  ; I don’t  judge  my  sister-in-law.  I permit 
myself  to  say  that  in  her  position  I would  have 
managed  otherwise.  I would  have  kept  my  husband’s 
affection,  or  I would  have  frankly  done  without  it, 
before  this.  But  my  sister  is  an  odd  compound ; I 
don’t  profess  to  understand  her.  Therefore  it  is,  in  a 
measure,  that  I appeal  to  you,  her  fellow-countryman. 
Of  course  you  ’ll  be  surprised  at  my  way  of  looking  at 
the  matter,  and  I admit  that  it ’s  a way  in  use  only 
among  people  whose  family  traditions  compel  them 
to  take  a superior  view  of  things.”  Madame  Clairin 
paused,  and  Longmore  wondered  where  her  family  tra- 
ditions were  going  to  lead  her. 

“ Listen,”  she  went  on.  “ There  has  never  been  a 
De  Mauves  who  has  not  given  his  wife  the  right  to 
be  jealous.  We  know  our  history  for  ages  back,  and 
the  fact  is  established.  It ’s  a shame  if  you  like,  but 
it ’s  something  to  have  a shame  with  such  a pedigree. 
The  De  Mauves  are  real  Frenchmen,  and  their  wives 
— I may  say  it  — have  been  worthy  of  them.  You 
may  see  all  their  portraits  in  our  Chateau  de  Mauves  ; 
every  one  of  them  an  ‘ injured  ’ beauty,  but  not  one 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


449 


of  them  hanging  her  head.  Not  one  of  them  had  the 
bad  taste  to  be  jealous,  and  yet  not  one  in  a dozen 
was  guilty  of  an  escapade,  — not  one  of  them  was 
talked  about.  There ’s  good  sense  for  you!  How  they 
managed  — go  and  look  at  the  dusky,  %led  canvases 
and  pastels,  and  ask.  They  were  femmes  d’esprit 
When  they  had  a headache,  they  put  on  a little  rouge 
and  came  to  supper  as  usual;  and  when  they  had  a 
heart-ache,  they  put  a little  rouge  on  their  hearts. 
These  are  fine  traditions,  and  it  does  n’t  seem  to  me 
fair  that  a little  American  bourgeoise  should  -come  in 
and  interrupt  them,  and  should  hang  her  photograph, 
with  her  obstinate  little  air  jpenclie,  in  the  gallery  of 
our  shrewd  fine  ladies.  A De  Mauves  must  be  a De 
Mauves.  When  she  married  my  brother,  I don’t  sup- 
pose she  took  him  for  a member  of  a societe  de  bonnes 
oeuvres . I don’t  say  we  ’re  right ; who  is  right  ? But 
we’re  as  history  has  made  us,  and  if  any  one  is  to 
change,  it  had  better  be  Madame  de  Mauves  herself.” 
Again  Madame  Clairin  paused  and  opened  and  closed 
her  fan.  “ Let  her  conform  ! ” she  said,  with  amazing 
audacity. 

Longmore’s  reply  was  ambiguous ; he  simply  said, 
“ Ah ! ” 

Madame  Clairin’s  pious  retrospect  had  apparently 
imparted  an  honest  zeal  to  her  indignation.  “For  a 
long  time,”  she  continued,  “ my  sister  has  been  taking 


450 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


the  attitude  of  an  injured  woman,  affecting  a disgust 
with  the  world,  and  shutting  herself  up  to  read  the 
' Imitation/  I ’ve  never  remarked  on  her  conduct,  but 
I Ve  quite  lost  patience  with  it.  When  a woman  with 
her  prettiness  lets  her  husband  wander,  she  deserves 
her  fate.  I don’t  wish  you  to  agree  with  me  — on  the 
contrary  ; but  I call  such  a woman  a goose.  She  must 
have  bored  him  to  death.  What  has  passed  between 
them  for  many  months  needn’t  concern  us;  what  prov- 
ocation my  sister  has  had  — monstrous,  if  you  wish  — 
what  ennui  my  brother  has  suffered.  It ’s  enough  that 
a week  ago,  just  after  you  had  ostensibly  gone  to 
Brussels,  something  happened  to  produce  an  explosion. 
She  found  a letter  in  his  pocket  — a photograph  — a 
trinket  — que  sais-je  ? At  any  rate,  the  scene  was 
terrible.  I did  n’t  listen  at  the  keyhole,  and  I don’t 
know  what  was  said ; but  I have  reason  to  believe 
that  my  brother  was  called  to  account  as  I fancy  none 
of  his  ancestors  have  ever  been,  — even  by  injured 
sweethearts.” 

Longmore  had  leaned  forward  in  silent  attention 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  instinctively  he 
dropped  his  face  into  his  hands.  “ Ah,  poor  woman  ! ” 
he  groaned. 

“ Yoila  ! ” said  Madame  Clairin.  “ You  pity  her.” 

“ Pity  her  ? ” cried  Longmore,  looking  up  with 
ardent  eyes  and  forgetting  the  spirit  of  Madame 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


451 


Clairin’s  narrative  in  the  miserable  facts.  “ Don’t 
you  ? ” 

“ A little.  But  I ’m  not  acting  sentimentally  ; I ’m 
acting  politically.  I wish  to  arrange  things,  — to  see 
my  brother  free  to  do  at  he  chooses,  — to  see  Euphemia 
contented.  Do  you  understand  me  ? ” 

“Very  well,  I think.  You’re  the  most  immoral 
person  I ’ve  lately  had  the  privilege  of  conversing 
with.” 

Madame  Clairin  shrugged  her  shoulders.  “ Possibly. 
When  was  there  a great  politician  who  was  not  im- 
moral ? ” 

“ Nay,”  said  Longmore  in  the  same  tone.  “ You  ’re 
too  superficial  to  be  a great  politician.  You  don’t 
begin  to  know  anything  about  Madame  de  Mauves.” 

Madame  Clairin  inclined  her  head  to  one  side,  eyed 
Longmore  sharply,  mused  a moment,  and  then  smiled 
with  an  excellent  imitation  of  intelligent  compassion. 
“ It ’s  not  in  my  interest  to  contradict  you.” 

“ It  would  be  in  your  interest  to  learn,  Madame 
Clairin,”  the  young  man  went  on  with  unceremonious 
candor,  “ what  honest  men  most  admire  in  a woman, — 
and  to  recognize  it  when  you  see  it.” 

Longmore  certainly  did  injustice  to  her  talents  for 
diplomacy,  for  she  covered  her  natural  annoyance  at 
this  sally  with  a pretty  piece  of  irony.  “ So  you  are 
in  love ! ” she  quietly  exclaimed. 


452 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


Longmore  was  silent  awliile.  “ I wonder  if  you 
would  understand  me,”  he  said  at  last,  “ if  I were  to 
tell  you  that  I have  for  Madame  de  Mauves  the  most 
devoted  friendship  ? ” 

“ You  underrate  my  intelligence.  But  'in  that  case 
you  ought  to  exert  your  influence  to  put  an  end  to 
these  painful  domestic  scenes.” 

“ Do  you  suppose,”  cried  Longmore,  “ that  she  talks 
to  me  about  her  domestic  scenes  ? ” 

Madame  Clairin  stared.  “ Then  your  friendship  is  n’t 
returned?”  And  as  Longmore  turned  away,  shaking 
his  head,  — “ Now,  at  least,”  she  added,  “ she  will  have 
something  to  tell  you.  I happen  to  know  the  upshot 
of  my  brother’s  last  interview  with  his  wife.”  Long- 
more  rose  to  his  feet  as  a sort  of  protest  against  the 
indelicacy  of  the  position  into  which  he  was  being 
forced ; but  all  that  made  him  tender  made  him  curi- 
ous, and  she  caught  in  his  averted  eyes  an  expression 
which  prompted  her  to  strike  her  blow.  “ My  brother 
is  monstrously  in  love  with  a certain  person  in 
Paris  ; of  course  he  ought  not  to  be ; but  he  would  n’t 
be  a De  Mauves  if  he  were  not.  It  was  this  unsanc- 
tified passion  that  spoke.  ‘ Listen,  madam,’  he  cried 
at  last : ‘ let  us  live  like  people  who  understand  life ! 
It ’s  unpleasant  to  be  forced  to  say  such  things  out- 
right, but  you  have  a way  of  bringing  one  down  to  the 
rudiments.  I ’m  faithless,  I ’m  heartless,  I ’m  brutal, 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


453 


I ’m  everything  horrible,  — it ’s  understood.  Take  your 
revenge,  console  yourself ; you  he  too  pretty  a woman 
to  have  anything  to  complain  of.  Here ’s  a handsome 
young  man  sighing  himself  into  a consumption  for  you. 
Listen  to  the  poor  fellow,  and  you  T1  find  that  virtue  is 
none  the  less  becoming  for  being  good-natured.  You  ’ll 
see  that  it ’s  not  after  all  such  a doleful  world,  and  that 
there  is  even  an  advantage  in  having  the  most  impu- 
dent of  husbands/  ” Madame  Clairin  paused  ; Long- 
more  had  turned  very  pale.  “ You  may  believe  it,”  she 
said ; “ the  speech  took  place  in  my  presence ; things 
were  done  in  order.  And  now,  Mr.  Longmore,”  — this 
with  a smile  which  he  was  too  troubled  at  the  moment 
to  appreciate,  but  which  he  remembered  later  with  a 
kind  of  awe,  — “ we  count  upon  you  ! ” 

“ He  said  this  to  her,  face  to  face,  as  you  say  it  to 
me  now  ? ” Longmore  asked  slowly,  after  a silence. 

“ Word  for  word,  and  with  the  greatest  politeness.” 

“ And  Madame  de  Mauves  — what  did  she  say  ? ” 

Madame  Clairin  smiled  again.  “ To  such  a speech 
as  that  a woman  says  — nothing.  She  had  been  sit- 
ting with  a piece  of  needlework,  and  I think  she  had 
not  seen  her  husband  since  their  quarrel  the  day 
before.  He  came  in  with  the  gravity  of  an  ambas- 
sador, and  I ’m  sure  that  when  he  made  his  de - 
mande  en  mariage  his  manner  was  not  more  respect- 
ful. He  only  wanted  white  gloves ! ” said  Madame 


454 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


Clairin.  “ Euphemia  sat  silent  a few  moments  draw- 
ing her  stitches,  and  then  without  a word,  without 
a glance,  she  walked  out  of  the  room.  It  was  just 
what  she  should  have  done  ! ” 

“ Yes,”  Longmore  repeated,  “ it  was  just  what  she 
should  have  done.” 

“ And  I,  left  alone  with  my  brother,  do  you  know 
what  I said  ? ” 

Longmore  shook  his  head.  “ Mauvais  sujet  ! ” he 
suggested. 

“ f You  Ve  done  me  the  honor/  I said,  ' to  take 
this  step  in  my  presence.  I don’t  pretend  to  qualify 
it.  You  know  what  you  ’re  about,  and  it ’s  your  own 
affair.  But  you  may  confide  in  my  discretion.’  Do 
you  think  he  has  had  reason  to  complain  of  it  ? ” 
She  received  no  answer ; Longmore  was  slowly  turn- 
ing away  and  passing  his  gloves  mechanically  round 
the  band  of  his  hat.  “ I hope,”  she  cried,  “ you  ’re 
not  going  to  start  for  Brussels  ! ” 

Plainly,  Longmore  was  deeply  disturbed,  and  Ma- 
dame Clairin  might  flatter  herself  on  the  success  of 
her  plea  for  old-fashioned  manners.  And  yet  there 
was  something  that  left  her  more  puzzled  than  sat- 
isfied in  the  reflective  tone  with  which  he  answered, 
“ No,  I shall  remain  here  for  the  present.”  The  pro- 
cesses of  his  mind  seemed  provokingly  subterranean, 
and  she  would  have  fancied  for  a moment  that  lie 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


455 


was  linked  with  her  sister  in  some  monstrous  con- 
spiracy of  asceticism. 

“ Come  this  evening,”  she  boldly  resumed.  “ The 
rest  will  take  care  of  itself.  Meanwhile  I shall  take 
the  liberty  of  telling  my  sister-in-law  that  I have 
repeated  — in  short,  that  I have  put  you  aufait” 

Longmore  started  and  colored,  and  she  hardly  knew 
whether  he  was  going  to  assent  or  demur.  “ Tell  her 
what  you  please.  Nothing  you  can  tell  her  will 
affect  her  conduct.” 

“ Yoyons  ! Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a woman, 
young,  pretty,  sentimental,  neglected  — insulted,  if  you 
will  — ? I see  you  don’t  believe  it.  Believe  sim- 
ply in  your  own  opportunity  ! But  for  heaven’s 
sake,  if  it ’s  to  lead  anywhere,  don’t  come  back  with 
that  visage  de  croquemort.  You  look  as  if  you  were 
going  to  bury  your  heart,  — not  to  offer  it  to  a pretty 
woman.  You  ’re  much  better  when  you  smile.  Come, 
do  yourself  justice.” 

“ Yes,”  he  said,  “ I must  do  myself  justice.”  And 
abruptly,  with  a bow,  he  took  his  departure. 


VII. 


E felt,  when  he  found  himself  unobserved,  in 


J — L the  open  air,  that  he  must  plunge  into  violent 
action,  walk  fast  and  far,  and  defer  the  opportunity 
for  thought.  He  strode  away  into  the  forest,  swinging 
his  cane,  throwing  back  his  head,  gazing  away  into 
the  verdurous  vistas,  and  following  the  road  without 
a purpose.  He  felt  immensely  excited,  but  he  could 
hardly  have  said  whether  his  emotion  was  a pain  or  a 
joy.  It  was  joyous  as  all  increase  of  freedom  is  joy- 
ous ; something  seemed  to  have  been  knocked  down 
across  his  path ; his  destiny  appeared  to  have  rounded 
a cape  and  brought  him  into  sight  of  an  open  sea.  But 
his  freedom  resolved  itself  somehow  into  the  need 
of  despising  all  mankind,  with  a single  exception  ; and 
the  fact  of  Madame  de  Mauves  inhabiting  a planet 
contaminated  by  the  presence  of  this  baser  multitude 
kept  his  elation  from  seeming  a pledge  of  ideal  bliss. 

But  she  was  there,  and  circumstance  now  forced 
them  to  be  intimate.  She  had  ceased  to  have  what 
men  call  a secret  for  him,  and  this  fact  itself  brought 
with  it  a sort  of  rapture.  He  had  no  prevision  that 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


457 


he  should  “ profit,”  in  the  vulgar  sense,  by  the  extraor- 
dinary position  into  which  they  had  been  thrown ; it 
might  be  but  a cruel  trick  of  destiny  to  make  hope  a 
harsher  mockery  and  renunciation  a keener  suffering. 
But  above  all  this  rose  the  conviction  that  she  could  do 
nothing  that  would  not  deepen  his  admiration. 

It  was  this  feeling  that  circumstance  — unlovely  as 
it  was  in  itself  — was  to  force  the  beauty  of  her  char- 
acter into  more  perfect  relief,  that  made  him  stride 
along  as  if  he  were  celebrating  a kind  of  spiritual  fes- 
tival. He  rambled  at  random  for  a couple  of  hours, 
and  found  at  last  that  he  had  left  the  forest  behind 
him  and  had  wandered  into  an  unfamiliar  region.  It 
was  a perfectly  rural  scene,  and  the  still  summer  day 
gave  it  a charm  for  which  its  meagre  elements  but  half 
accounted. 

Longmore  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  so 
characteristically  French ; all  the  French  novels 
seemed  to  have  described  it,  all  the  French  land- 
scapists to  have  painted  it.  The  fields  and  trees 
were  of  a cool  metallic  green ; the  grass  looked  as  if 
it  might  stain  your  trousers,  and  the  foliage  your 
hands.  The  clear  light  had  a sort  of  mild  grayness : 
the  sunbeams  were  of  silver  rather  than  gold.  A great 
red-roofed,  high-stacked  farm-house,  with  whitewashed 
walls  and  a straggling  yard,  surveyed  the  high  road, 
on  one  side,  from  behind  a transparent  curtain  of 
20 


458 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


poplars.  A narrow  stream,  half  choked  with  emerald 
rushes  and  edged  with  gray  aspens,  occupied  the  op- 
posite quarter.  The  meadows  rolled  and  sloped  away 
gently  to  the  low  horizon,  which  was  barely  concealed 
by  the  continuous  line  of  clipped  and  marshalled 
trees.  The  prospect  was  not  rich,  but  it  had  a frank 
homeliness  which  touched  the  young  man’s  fancy. 
It  was  full  of  light  atmosphere  and  diffused  sunshine, 
and  if  it  was  prosaic,  it  was  soothing. 

Longmore  was  disposed  to  walk  further,  and  he 
advanced  along  the  road  beneath  the  poplars.  In 
twenty  minutes  he  came  to  a village  which  straggled 
away  to  the  right,  among  orchards  and  jpotagers.  On 
the  left,  at  a stone’s  throw  from  the  road,  stood  a 
little  pink-faced  inn,  which  reminded  him  that  he 
had  not  breakfasted,  having  left  home  with  a previs- 
ion of  hospitality  from  Madame  de  Mauves.  In  the 
inn  he  found  a brick-tiled  parlor  and  a hostess  in 
sabots  and  a white  cap,  whom,  over  the  omelette  she 
speedily  served  him,  — borrowing  license  from  the 
bottle  of  sound  red  wine  which  accompanied  it, — 
he  assured  that  she  was  a true  artist.  To  reward  his 
compliment,  she  invited  him  to  smoke  his  cigar  in 
her  little  garden  behind  the  house. 

Here  he  found  a tonndle  and  a view  of  ripening 
crops,  stretching  down  to  the  stream.  The  tonnelle 
was  rather  close,  and  he  preferred  to  lounge  on  a 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


459 


bench  against  the  pink  wall,  in  the  sun,  which  was 
not  too  hot.  Here,  as  he  rested  and  gazed  and 
mused,  he  fell  into  a train  of  thought  which,  in  an 
indefinable  fashion,  was  a soft  influence  from  the 
scene  about  him.  His  heart,  which  had  been  beat- 
ing fast  for  the  past  three  hours,  gradually  checked 
its  pulses  and  left  him  looking  at  life  with  a rather 
more  level  gaze.  The  homely  tavern  sounds  coming 
out  through  the  open  windows,  the  sunny  stillness 
of  the  fields  and  crops,  which  covered  so  much  vig- 
orous natural  life,  suggested  very  little  that  wras 
transcendental,  had  very  little  to  say  about  renuncia- 
tion,— nothing  at  all  about  spiritual  zeal.  They 
seemed  to  utter  a message  from  plain  ripe  nature,  to 
express  the  unperverted  reality  of  things,  to  say  that 
the  common  lot  is  not  brilliantly  amusing,  and  that 
the  part  of  wisdom  is  to  grasp  frankly  at  experience, 
lest  you  miss  it  altogether.  What  reason  there  was 
for  his  falling  a-wondering  after  this  whether  a deeply 
wounded  heart  might  be  soothed  and  healed  by  such 
a scene,  it  would  be  difficult  to  explain ; certain  it 
is  that,  as  he  sat  there,  he  had  a waking  dream  of 
an  unhappy  woman  strolling  by  the  slow-flowing 
stream  before  him,  and  pulling  down  the  blossoming 
boughs  in  the  orchards.  He  mused  and  mused,  and 
at  last  found  himself  feeling  angry  that  he  could  not 
somehow  think  worse  of  Madame  de  Mauves,  — or  at 


460 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


any  rate  think  otherwise.  He  could  fairly  claim  that 
in  a sentimental  way  he  asked  very  little  of  life, — 
he  made  modest  demands  on  passion ; why  then 
should  his  only  passion  be  born  to  ill-fortune  ? why 
should  his  first  — his  last  — glimpse  of  positive  hap- 
piness be  so  indissolubly  linked  with  renunciation  ? 

It  is  perhaps  because,  like  many  spirits  of  the 
same  stock,  he  had  in  his  composition  a lurking 
principle  of  asceticism  to  whose  authority  he  had 
ever  paid  an  unquestioning  respect,  that  he  now  felt 
all  the  vehemence  of  rebellion.  To  renounce  — to 
renounce  again  — to  renounce  forever  — was  this,  all 
that  youth  and  longing  and  resolve  were  meant  for? 
Was  experience  to  be  muffled  and  mutilated,  like  an 
indecent  picture  ? Was  a man  to  sit  and  deliber- 
ately condemn  his  future  to  be  the  blank  memory  of 
a regret,  rather  than  the  long  reverberation  of  a joy  ? 
Sacrifice  ? The  word  was  a trap  for  minds  muddled 
by  fear,  an  ignoble  refuge  of  weakness.  To  insist 
now  seemed  not  to  dare,  but  simply  to  be,  to  live 
on  possible  terms. 

His  hostess  came  out  to  hang  a cloth  to  dry  on  the 
hedge,  and,  though  her  guest  was  sitting  quietly 
enough,  she  seemed  to  see  in  his  kindled  eyes  a flatter- 
ing testimony  to  the  quality  of  her  wine. 

As  she  turned  back  into  the  house,  she  was  met  by 
a young  man  whom  Longmore  observed  in  spite  of  his 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


461 


preoccupation.  He  was  evidently  a member  of  that 
jovial  fraternity  of  artists  whose  very  shabbiness  has 
an  affinity  with  the  element  of  picturesqueness  and 
unexpectedness  in  life  which  provokes  a great  deal  of 
unformulated  envy  among  people  foredoomed  to  be 
respectable. 

Longmore  was  struck  first  with  his  looking  like  a 
very  clever  man,  and  then  with  his  looking  like  a very 
happy  one.  The  combination,  as  it  was  expressed  in 
his  face,  might  have  arrested  the  attention  of  even  a 
less  cynical  philosopher.  He  had  a slouched  hat  and 
a blond  beard,  a light  easel  under  one  arm,  and  an  un- 
finished sketch  in  oils  under  the  other. 

He  stopped  and  stood  talking  for  some  moments  to 
the  landlady  with  a peculiarly  good-humored  smile. 
They  were  discussing  the  possibilities  of  dinner ; the 
hostess  enumerated  some  very  savory  ones,  and  he 
nodded  briskly,  assenting  to  everything.  It  couldn’t 
be,  Longmore  thought,  that  he  found  such  soft  content- 
ment in  the  prospect  of  lamb  chops  and  spinach  and  a 
tarte  a la  creme . When  the  dinner  had  been  ordered, 
he  turned  up  his  sketch,  and  the  good  woman  fell 
a-wondering  and  looking  off  at  the  spot  by  the  stream- 
side  where  he  had  made  it. 

Was  it  his  work,  Longmore  wondered,  that  made 
him  so  happy  ? Was  a strong  talent  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  ? The  landlady  went  back  to  her  kitchen, 


462 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


and  the  young  painter  stood  as  if  he  were  waiting  for 
something,  beside  the  gate  which  opened  upon  the  path 
across  the  fields.  Longmore  sat  brooding  .and  asking 
himself  whether  it  was  better  to  cultivate  an  art  than 
to  cultivate  a passion.  Before  he  had  answered  the 
question  the  painter  had  grown  tired  of  waiting.  He 
picked  up  a pebble,  tossed  it  lightly  into  an  upper 
window,  and  called,  “ Claudine  ! ” 

Claudine  appeared ; Longmore  heard  her  at  the  win- 
dow, bidding  the  young  man  to  have  patience.  “But 
I ’m  losing  my  light/’  he  said ; “ I must  have  my 
shadows  in  the  same  place  as  yesterday.” 

“ Go  without  me,  then,”  Claudine  answered  ; “ I will 
join  you  in  ten  minutes.”  Her  voice  was  fresh  and 
young ; it  seemed  to  say  to  Longmore  that  she  was  as 
happy  as  her  companion. 

“ Don’t  forget  the  Chenier,”  cried  the  young  man  ; 
and  turning  away,  he  passed  out  of  the  gate  and  fol- 
lowed the  path  across  the  fields  until  he  disappeared 
among  the  trees  by  the  side  of  the  stream.  Who  Avas 
Claudine  ? Longmore  vaguely  wondered ; and  was  she 
as  pretty  as  her  voice  ? Before  long  he  had  a chance 
to  satisfy  himself ; she  came  out  of  the  house  with  her 
hat  and  parasol,  prepared  to  follow  her  companion. 
She  had  on  a pink  muslin  dress  and  a little  white  hat, 
and  she  was  as  pretty  as  a Frenchwoman  needs  to  be 
to  be  pleasing.  She  had  a clear  brown  skin  and  a 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


463 


bright  dark  eye,  and  a step  which  seemed  to  keep  time 
to  some  slow  music,  heard  only  by  herself.  Her  hands-* 
were  encumbered  with  various  articles  which  she 
seemed  to  intend  to  carry  with  her.  In  one  arm  she 
held  her  parasol  and  a large  roll  of  needlework,  and  in 
the  other  a shawl  and  a heavy  white  umbrella,  such  as 
painters  use  for  sketching.  Meanwhile  she  was  trying 
to  thrust  into  her  pocket  a paper-covered  volume  which 
Longmore  saw  to  be  the  Poems  of  Andre  Chenier ; but 
in  the  effort  she  dropped  the  large  umbrella,  and  ut- 
tered a half-smiling  exclamation  of  disgust.  Long- 
more  stepped  forward  with  a bow  and  picked  up  the 
umbrella,  and  as  she,  protesting  her  gratitude,  put  out 
her  hand  to  take  it,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  un- 
becomingly overburdened. 

“ You  have  too  much  to  carry,”  he  said  ; “you  must 
let  me  help  you.” 

“ You  ’re  very  good,  monsieur,”  she  answered.  “ My 
husband  always  forgets  something.  He  can  do  nothing 
without  his  umbrella.  He  is  d’une  etourderie — ” 

“ You  ihust  allow  me  to  carry  the  umbrella,”  Long- 
more  said.  “ It  *s  too  heavy  for  a lady.” 

She  assented,  after  many  compliments  to  his  polite- 
ness ; and  he  walked  by  her  side  into  the  meadow. 
She  went  lightly  and  rapidly,  picking  her  steps  and 
glancing  forward  to  catch  a glimpse  of  her  husband. 
She  was  graceful,  she  was  charming,  she  had  an  air  of 


464 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


decision  and  yet  of  sweetness,  and  it  seemed  to  Long- 
*more  that  a young  artist  would  work  none  the  worse 
for  having  her  seated  at  his  side,  reading  Chenier’s 
iambics.  They  were  newly  married,  he  supposed,  and 
evidently  their  path  of  life  had  none  of  the  mocking 
crookedness  of  some  others.  They  asked  little ; but 
what  need  one  ask  more  than  such  quiet  summer  days, 
with  the  creature  one  loves,  by  a shady  stream,  with 
art  and  books  and  a wide,  unshadowed  horizon  ? To 
spend  such  a morning,  to  stroll  back  to  dinner  in  the 
red-tiled  parlor  of  the  inn,  to  ramble  away  again  as  the 
sun  got  low,  — all  this  was  a vision  of  bliss  which 
floated  before  him,  only  to  torture  him  with  a sense  of 
the  impossible.  All  Frenchwomen  are  not  coquettes, 
he  remarked,  as  he  kept  pace  with  his  companion. 
She  uttered  a word  now  and  then,  for  politeness’  sake, 
but  she  never  looked  at  him,  and  seemed  not  in  the 
least  to  care  that  he  was  a wrell-favored  young  man. 
She  cared  for  nothing  but  the  young  artist  in  the 
shabby  coat  and  the  slouched  hat,  and  for  discovering 
where  he  had  set  up  his  easel. 

This  was  soon  done.  He  was  encamped  under  the 
trees,  close  to  the  stream,  and,  in  the  diffused  green 
shade  of  the  little  wood,  seemed  to  be  in  no  immediate 
need  of  his  umbrella.  He  received  a vivacious  rebuke, 
however,  for  forgetting  it,  and  was  informed  of  what 
he  owed  to  Longmore’s  complaisance.  He  was  duly 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


465 


grateful ; he  thanked  our  hero  warmly,  and  offered  him 
a seat  on  the  grass.  But  Longmore  felt  like  a marplot, 
and  lingered  only  long  enough  to  glance  at  the  young 
man’s  sketch,  and  to  see  it  was  a very  clever  rendering 
of  the  silvery  stream  and  the  vivid  green  rushes.  The 
young  wife  had  spread  her  shawl  on  the  grass  at  the 
base  of  a tree,  and  meant  to  seat  herself  when  Long- 
more  had  gone,  and  murmur  Chenier’s  verses  to  the 
music  of  the  gurgling  river.  Longmore  looked  awhile 
from  one  to  the  other,  barely  stifled  a sigh,  bade  them 
good  morning,  and  took  his  departure. 

He  knew  neither  where  to  go  nor  what  to  do;  he 
seemed  afloat  on  the  sea  of  ineffectual  longing.  He 
strolled  slowly  back  to  the  inn,  and  in  the  doorway 
met  the  landlady  coming  back  from  the  butcher’s  with 
the  lamb  chops  for  the  dinner  of  her  lodgers. 

“ Monsieur  has  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  dame, 
of  our  young  painter,”  she  said  with  a broad  smile, — - 
a smile  too  broad  for  malicious  meanings.  “ Monsieur 
has  perhaps  seen  the  young  man’s  picture.  It  appears 
that  he  has  a great  deal  of  talent.” 

“ His  picture  was  very  pretty,”  said  Longmore,  “ but 
his  dame  was  prettier  still.” 

“ She ’s  a very  nice  little  woman  ; but  I pity  her  all 
the  more.” 

“ I don’t  see  why  she ’s  to  be  pitied,”  said  Longmore; 
“ they  seem  a very  happy  couple.” 


466 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


The  landlady  gave  a knowing  nod. 

“Don't  trust  to  it,  monsieur!  Those  artists,  — $a 
ria  pas  de  principes  ! From  one  day  to  another  he 
can  plant  her  there ! I know  them,  allez.  I 've  had 
them  here  very  often ; one  year  with  one,  another  year 
with  another." 

Longmore  was  puzzled  for  a moment.  Then,  “ You 
mean  she 's  not  his  wife  ? ” he  asked. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  “ What  shall  I tell 
you  ? They  are  not  dcs  hommes  serieux,  those  gentle- 
men! They  don't  engage  themselves  for  an  eternity. 
It 's  none  of  my  business,  and  I 've  no  wish  to  speak 
ill  of  madame.  She 's  a very  nice  little  woman,  and 
she  loves  her  jeune  homme  to  distraction." 

“ Who  is  she  ? " asked  Longmore.  “ What  do  you 
know  about  her  ? " 

“ Nothing  for  certain  ; but  it 's  my  belief  that  she 's 
better  than  he.  I've  even  gone  so  far  as  to  believe 
that  she 's  a lady,  — a true  lady,  — and  that  she  has 
given  up  a great  many  things  for  him.  I do  the  best 
I can  for  them,  but  I don't  believe  she 's  been  obliged 
all  her  life  to  content  herself  with  a dinner  of  two 
courses."  And  she  turned  over  her  lamb  chops  ten- 
derly, as  if  to  say  that  though  a good  cook  could 
imagine  better  things,  yet  if  you  could  have  but  one 
course,  lamb  chops  had  much  in  their  favor.  “ I shall 
cook  them  with  bread  crumbs.  Voild  les  femmes , 
monsieur  ! " 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


467 


Longmore  turned  away  with  the  feeling  that  women  \ 
were  indeed  a measureless  mystery,  and  that  it  was 


hard  to  say  whether  there  was  greater  beauty  in  their 


strength  or  in  their  weakness.  He  walked  back  to 
Saint-Germain,  more  slowly  than  he  had  come,  with 
less  philosophic  resignation  to  any  event,  and  more  of 
the  urgent  egotism  of  the  passion  which  philosophers 
call  the  supremely  selfish  one.  Every  now  and  then 
the  episode  of  the  happy  young  painter  and  the 
charming  woman  who  had  given  up  a great  many 
things  for  him  rose  vividly  in  his  mind,  and  seemed 
to  mock  his  moral  unrest  like  some  obtrusive  visioi\ 
of  unattainable  bliss. 

The  landlady’s  gossip  cast  no  shadow  on  its  bright- 
ness ; her  voice  seemed  that  of  the  vulgar  chorus  of  the 
uninitiated,  which  stands  always  ready  with  its  gross 
prose  rendering  of  the  inspired  passages  in  human  action. 
Was  it  possible  a man  could  take  that  from  a woman, 
— take  all  that  lent  lightness  to  that  other  woman’s 
footstep  and  intensity  to  her  glance,  — and  not  give 
her  the  absolute  certainty  of  a devotion  as  unalterable 
as  the  process  of  the  sun  ? Was  it  possible  that  such  a 
rapturous  union  had  the  seeds  of  trouble, — that  the 
charm  of  such  a perfect  accord  could  be  broken  by  any- 
thing but  death  ? Longmore  felt  an  immense  desire  to 
cry  out  a thousand  times  “ No ! ” for  it  seemed  to  him 
at  last  that  he  was  somehow  spiritually  the  same  as  the 


468 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


young  painter,  and  that  the  latter’s  companion  had  the 
soul  of  Euphemia  de  Mauves. 

The  heat  of  the  sun,  as  he  walked  along,  became 
oppressive,  and  when  he  re-entered  the  forest  he  turned 
aside  into  the  deepest  shade  he  could  find,  and  stretched 
himself  on  the  mossy  ground  at  the  foot  of  a great 
beech.  He  lay  for  a while  staring  up  into  the  verdu- 
rous dusk  overhead,  and  trying  to  conceive  Madame 
de  Mauves  hastening  toward  some  quiet  stream-side 
where  he  waited,  as  he  had  seen  that  trusting  creature 
do  an  hour  before.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  how  well 
he  succeeded ; but  the  effort  soothed  him  rather  than 
excited  him,  and  as  he  had  had  a good  deal  both  of 
moral  and  physical  fatigue,  he  sank  at  last  into  a quiet 
sleep. 

While  he  slept  he  had  a strange,  vivid  dream.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  a wood,  very  much  like  the  one  on 
which  his  eyes  had  lately  closed;  but  the  wood  was 
divided  by  the  murmuring  stream  he  had  left  an  hour 
before.  He  was  walking  up  and  down,  he  thought, 
restlessly  and  in  intense  expectation  of  some  mo- 
mentous event.  Suddenly,  at  a distance,  through  the 
trees,  he  saw  the  gleam  of  a woman’s  dress,  and  hur- 
ried forward  to  meet  her.  As  he  advanced  he  rec- 
ognized her,  but  he  saw  at  the  same  time  that  she 
was  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river.  She  seemed 
at  first  not  to  notice  him,  but  when  they  were  oppo- 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


469 


site  each  other  she  stopped  and  looked  at  him  very 
gravely  and  pityingly.  She  made  him  no  motion  that 
he  should  cross  the  stream,  but  he  wished  greatly  to 
stand  by  her  side.  He  knew  the  water  was  deep,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  knew  that  he  should  have 
to  plunge,  and  that  he  feared  that  when  he  rose  to 
the  surface  she  would  have  disappeared.  Nevertheless, 
he  was  going  to  plunge,  when  a boat  turned  into  the 
current  from  above  and  came  swiftly  toward  them, 
guided  by  an  oarsman,  who  was  sitting  so  that  they 
could  not  see  his  face.  He  brought  the  boat  to  the 
bank  where  Longmore  stood ; the  latter  stepped  in, 
and  with  a few  strokes  they  touched  the  opposite 
shore.  Longmore  got  out,  and,  though  he  was  sure  he 
had  crossed  the  stream,  Madame  de  Mauves  was  not 
there.  He  turned  with  a kind  of  agony  and  saw  that 
now  she  was  on  the  other  bank,  — the  one  he  had 
left.  She  gave  him  a grave,  silent  glance,  and  walked 
away  up  the  stream.  The  boat  and  the  boatman  re- 
sumed their  course,  but  after  going  a short  distance 
they  stopped,  and  the  boatman  turned  back  and  looked 
at  the  still  divided  couple.  Then  Longmore  recognized 
him, — just  as  he  had  recognized  him  a few  days  before 
at  the  cafe  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 


VIII. 


E must  have  slept  some  time  after  he  ceased 


J — L dreaming,  for  he  had  no  immediate  memory  of 
his  dream.  It  came  back  to  him  later,  after  he  had 
roused  himself  and  had  walked  nearly  home.  No 
great  ingenuity  was  needed  to  make  it  seem  a rather 
striking  allegory,  and  it  haunted  and  oppressed  him 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  He  took  refuge,  however,  in 
his  quickened  conviction  that  the  only  sound  policy 
in  life  is  to  grasp  unsparingly  at  happiness ; and  it 
seemed  no  more  than  one  of  the  vigorous  measures 
dictated  by  such  a policy,  to  return  that  evening  to 
Madame  de  Mauves.  And  yet  when  he  had  decided 
to  do  so,  and  had  carefully  dressed  himself,  he  felt  an 
irresistible  nervous  tremor  which  made  it  easier  to 
linger  at  his  open  window,  wondering,  with  a strange 
mixture  of  dread  and  desire,  whether  Madame  Clairin 

had  told  her  sister-in-law  that  she  had  told  him 

His  presence  now  might  be  simply  a gratuitous  cause 
of  suffering ; and  yet  his  absence  might  seem  to  imply 
that  it  was  in  the  power  of  circumstances  to  make 
them  ashamed  to  meet  each  other's  eyes.  He  sat  a 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


471 


long  time  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  lost  in  a painful 
confusion  of  hopes  and  questionings.  He  felt  at  mo- 
ments as  if  he  could  throttle  Madame  Clairin,  and  yet 
he  could  not  help  asking  himself  whether  it  was  not 
possible  that  she  might  have  done  him  a service.  It 
was  late  when  he  left  the  hotel,  and  as  he  entered  the 
gate  of  the  other  house  his  heart  was  beating  so  that 
he  was  sure  his  voice  would*  show  it. 

The  servant  ushered  him  into  the  drawing-room, 
which  was  empty,  with  the  lamp  burning  low.  But 
the  long  windows  were  open,  and  their  light  curtains 
swaying  in  a soft,  warm  wind,  and  Longmore  stepped 
out  upon  the  terrace.  There  he  found  Madame  de 
Mauves  alone,  slowly  pacing  up  and  down.  She  was 
dressed  in  white,  very  simply,  and  her  hair  was  ar- 
ranged, not  as  she  usually  wore  it,  but  in  a single  loose 
coil,  like  that  of  a person  unprepared  for  company. 

She  stopped  when  she  saw  Longmore,  seemed  slightly 
startled,  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  stood  waiting 
for  him  to  speak.  He  looked  at  her,  tried  to  say 
something,  but  found  no  words.  He  knew  it  was 
awkward,  it  was  offensive,  to  stand  silent,  gazing ; but 
he  could  not  say  what  was  suitable,  and  he  dared  not 
say  what  he  wished. 

Her  face  was  indistinct  in  the  dim  light,  but  he 
could  see  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  and  he 
wondered  what  they  expressed.  Did  they  warn  him, 


472 


MADAME  DE  MATJVES. 


did  they  plead  or  did  they  confess  to  a sense  of  provo- 
cation ? For  an  instant  his  head  swam ; he  felt  as  if 
it  would  make  all  things  clear  to  stride  forward  and 
fold  her  in  his  arms.  But  a moment  later  he  was  still 
standing  looking  at  her ; he  had  not  moved ; he  knew 
that  she  had  spoken,  hut  he  had  not  understood  her. 

"You  were  here  this  morning,”  she  continued,  and 
now,  slowly,  the  meaning  of  her  words  came  to  him. 
"I  had  a bad  headache  and  had  to  shut  myself  up.” 
She  spoke  in  her  usual  voice. 

Longmore  mastered  his  agitation  and  answered  her 
without  betraying  himself:  “I  hope  you  are  better 
now.” 

"Yes,  thank  you,  I 'in  better  — much  better.” 

He  was  silent  a moment,  and  she  moved  away  to  a 
chair  and  seated  herself.  After  a pause  he  followed 
her  and  stood  before  her,  leaning  against  the  balus- 
trade of  the  terrace.  " I hoped  you  might  have  been 
able  to  come  out  for  the  morning  into  the  forest.  I 
went  alone ; it  was  a lovely  day,  and  I took  a long 
walk.” 

"It  was  a lovely  day,”  she  said  absently,  and  sat 
with  her  eyes  lowered,  slowly  opening  and  closing  her 
fan.  Longmore,  as  he  watched  her,  felt  more  and  more 
sure  that  her  sister-in-l^w  had  seen  her  since  her  in- 
terview with  him ; that  her  attitude  toward  him  was 
changed.  It  was  this  same  something  that  chilled  the 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


473 


ardor  with  which  he  had  come,  or  at  least  converted 
the  dozen  passionate  speeches  which  kept  rising  to  his 
lips  into  a kind  of  reverential  silence.  No,  certainly, 
he  could  not  clasp  her  to  his  arms  now,  any  more  than 
some  early  worshipper  could  have  clasped  the  marble 
statue  in  his  temple.  But  Longmore’s  statue  spoke  at 
last,  with  a full  human  voice,  and  even  with  a shade 
of  human  hesitation.  She  looked  up,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  her  eyes  shone  through  the  dusk. 

“ I ’m  very  glad  you  came  this  evening,”  she  said. 
“I  have  a particular  reason  for  being  glad.  I half 
expected  you,  and  yet  I thought  it  possible  you  might 
not  come.” 

“As  I have  been  feeling  all  day,”  Longmore  an- 
swered, “ it  was  impossible  I should  not  come.  I have 
spent  the  day  in  thinking  of  you.” 

She  made  no  immediate  reply,  but  continued  to  open 
and  close  her  fan  thoughtfully.  At  last,  — “I  have 
something  to  say  to  you,”  she  said  abruptly.  “ I want 
you  to  know  to  a certainty  that  I have  a very  high 
opinion  of  you.”  Longmore  started  and  shifted  his 
position.  To  what  was  she  coming?  But  he  said 
nothing,  and  she  went  on. 

“ I take  a great  interest  in  you ; there ’s  no  reason 
why  I should  not  say  it,  — I have  a great  friendship 
for  you.” 

He  began  to  laugh;  he  hardly  knew  why,  unless 


474 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


that  this  seemed  the  very  mockery  of  coldness.  But 
she  continued  without  heeding  him. 

“ You  know,  I suppose,  that  a great  disappointment 
always  implies  a great  confidence  — a great  hope  ? ” 

“ I have  hoped,”  he  said,  “ hoped  strongly;  but  doubt- 
less never  rationally  enough  to  have  a right  to  bemoan 
my  disappointment.” 

“ You  do  yourself  injustice.  I have  such  confidence 
in  your  reason,  that  I should  be  greatly  disappointed 
if  I were  to  find  it  wanting.” 

“ I really  almost  believe  that  you  are  amusing  your- 
self at  my  expense,”  cried  Longmore.  “ My  reason  ? 
Beason  is  a mere  word ! The  only  reality  in  the  world 
is  feeling  ! ” 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  looked  at  him  gravely.  His 
eyes  by  this  time  were  accustomed  to  the  imperfect 
light,  and  he  could  see  that  her  look  was  reproachful, 
and  yet  that  it  was  beseechingly  kind.  She  shook  her 
head  impatiently,  and  laid  her  fan  upon  his  arm  with 
a strong  pressure. 

"If  that  were  so,  it  would  be  a weary  world.  I 
know  your  feeling,  however,  nearly  enough.  You 
need  n't  try  to  express  it.  It  ’s  enough  that  it  gives 
me  the  right  to  ask  a favor  of  you,  — to  make  an 
urgent,  a solemn  request.” 

" Make  it ; I listen.” 

" Don't  disappoint  me.  If  you  don’t  understand  me 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


475 


now,  you  will  to-morrow,  or  very  soon.  When  I said 
just  now  that  I had  a very  high  opinion  of  you,  I 
meant  it  very  seriously.  It  was  not  a vain  compli- 
ment. I believe  that  there  is  no  appeal  one  may 
make  to  your  generosity  which  can  remain  long  unan- 
swered. If  this  were  to  happen,  — if  I were  to  find 
you  selfish  where  I thought  you  generous,  narrow 
where  I thought  you  large,” — and  she  spoke  slowly, 
with  her  voice  lingering  with  emphasis  on  each  of 
these  words,  — “ vulgar  where  I thought  you  rare,  — 
I should  think  worse  of  human  natule.  I should  suf- 
fer, — I should  suffer  keenly.  I should  say  to  myself 
in  the  dull  days  of  the  future,  ‘ There  was  one  man 
who  might  have  done  so  and  so ; and  he,  too,  failed/ 
But  this  shall  not  be.  You  have  made  too  good  an 
impression  on  me  not  to  make  the  very  best.  If  you 
wish  to  please  me  forever,  there ’s  a way.” 

She  was  standing  close  to  him,  with  her  dress 
touching  him,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his.  As  she  went  on 
her  manner  grew  strangely  intense,  and  she  had  the 
singular  appearance  of  a woman  preaching  reason 
with  a kind  of  passion.  Longmore  was  confused,  daz- 
zled, almost  bewildered.  The  intention  of  her  words 
was  all  remonstrance,  refusal,  dismissal ; but  her  pres- 
ence there,  so  close,  so  urgent,  so  personal,  seemed  a 
distracting  contradiction  of  it.  She  had  never  been  so 
lovely.  In  her  white  dress,  with  her  pale  face  and 


476 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


deeply  lighted  eyes,  she  seemed  the  very  spirit  of  the 
summer  night.  When  she  had  ceased  speaking,  she 
drew  a long  breath ; Longmore  felt  it  on  hi£  cheek, 
and  it  stirred  in  his  whole  being  a sudden,  rapturous 
conjecture.  Were  her  words  in  their  soft  severity  a 
mere  delusive  spell,  meant  to  throw  into  relief  her 
almost  ghostly  beauty,  and  was  this  the  only  truth, 
the  only  reality,  the  only  law  ? 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  felt  that  she  was  watching 
him,  not  without  pain  and  perplexity  herself.  He 
looked  at  her  again,  met  her  own  eyes,  and  saw  a tear 
in  each  of  them.  Then  this  last  suggestion  of  his  desire 
seemed  to  die  away  with  a stifled  murmur,  and  her 
beauty,  more  and  more  radiant  in  the  darkness,  rose 
before  him  as  a symbol  of  something  vague  which 
was  yet  more  beautiful  than  itself. 

“ I may  understand  you  to-morrow,”  he  said,  “ but  I 
don’t  understand  you  now.” 

“And  yet  I took  counsel  with  myself  to-day  and 
asked  myself  how  I had  best  speak  to  you.  On  one 
side,  I might  have  refused  to  see  you  at  all.”  Long- 
more  made  a violent  movement,  and  she  added:  “In 
that  case  I should  have  written  to  you.  I might  see 
you,  I thought,  and  simply  say  to  you  that  there  were 
excellent  reasons  why  we  should  part,  and  that  I 
begged  this  visit  should  be  your  last.  This  I inclined 
to  do ; what  made  me  decide  otherwise  was  — simply 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


477 


friendship  ! I said  to  myself  that  I should  be  glad  to 
remember  in  future  days,  not  that  I had  dismissed 
you,  but  that  you  had  gone  away  out  of  the  fulness 
of  your  own  wisdom.” 

“The  fulness  — the  fulness!”  cried  Longmore. 

“ I ’m  prepared,  if  necessary,”  Madame  de  Mauves 
continued  after  a pause,  “ to  fall  back  upon  my  strict 
right.  But,  as  I said  before,  I shall  be  greatly  dis- 
appointed, if  I am  obliged  to.” 

“ When  I hear  you  say  that,”  Longmore  answered, 
“ I feel  so  angry,  so  horribly  irritated,  that  I wonder 
it  is  not  easy  to  leave  you  without  more  words.” 

“ If  you  should  go  away  in  anger,  this  idea  of  mine 
about  our  parting  would  be  but  half  realized.  No,  I 
don’t  want  to  think  of  you  as  angry ; I don’t  want  even 
to  think  of  you  as  making  a serious  sacrifice.  I want 
to  think  of  you  as  — ” 

“ As  a creature  who  never  has  existed,  — who  never 
can  exist ! A creature  who  knew  you  without  loving 
you,  — who  left  you  without  regretting  you!” 

She  turned  impatiently  away  and  walked  to  the 
other  end  of  the  terrace.  When  she  came  back,  he 
saw  that  her  impatience  had  become  a cold  sternness. 
She  stood  before  him  again,  looking  at  him  from  head 
to  foot,  in  deep  reproachfulness,  almost  in  scorn.  Be- 
neath her  glance  he  felt  a kind  of  shame.  He  colored ; 
she  observed  it  and  withheld  something  she  was  about 


478 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


to  say.  She  turned  away  again,  walked  to  the  other 
end  of  the  terrace,  and  stood  there  looking  away  into 
the  garden.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  guessed 
he  understood  her,  and  slowly  — slowly  — half  as  the 
fruit  of  his  vague  self-reproach,  — he  did  understand 
her.  She  was  giving  him  a chance  to  do  gallantly 
what  it  seemed  unworthy  of  both  of  them  he  should 
do  meanly. 

She  liked  him,  she  must  have  liked  him  greatly,  to 
wish  so  to  spare  him,  to  go  to  the  trouble  of  conceiving 
an  ideal  of  conduct  for  him.  With  this  sense  of  her 
friendship,  — her  strong  friendship  she  had  just  called 
it,  — Longmore’s  soul  rose  with  a new  flight,  and  sud- 
denly felt  itself  breathing  a clearer  air.  The  words 
ceased  to  seem  a mere  bribe  to  his  ardor ; they  were 
charged  with  ardor  themselves ; they  were  a present 
happiness.  He  moved  rapidly  toward  her  with  a feel- 
ing that  this  was  something  he  might  immediately 
enjoy. 

They  were  separated  by  two  thirds  of  the  length  of 
the.  terrace,  and  he  had  to  pass  the  drawing-room  win- 
dow. As  he  did  so  he  started  with  an  exclamation. 
Madame  Clairin  stood  posted  there,  watching  him. 
Conscious,  apparently,  that  she  might  be  suspected 
of  eavesdropping,  she  stepped  forward  with  a smile  and 
looked  from  Longmore  to  his  hostess. 

“ Such  a tete-&-tete  as  that,”  she  said,  “ one  owes  no 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


479 


apology  for  interrupting.  One  ought  to  come  in  for 
good  manners.” 

Madame  de  Mauves  turned  round,  but  she  answered 
nothing.  She  looked  straight  at  Longmore,  and  her 
eyes  had  extraordinary  eloquence.  He  was  not  exactly 
sure,  indeed,  what  she  meant  them  to  say;  but  they 
seemed  to  say  plainly  something  of  this  kind : “ Call 
it  what  you  will,  what  you  have  to  urge  upon  me  is  the 
thing  which  this  woman  can  best  conceive.  What  I 
ask  of  you  is  something  she  can’t!”  They  seemed, 
somehow,  to  beg  him  to  suffer  her  to  be  herself,  and 
to  intimate  that  that  self  was  as  little  as  possible  like 
Madame  Clairin.  He  felt  an  immense  answering  de- 
sire not  to  do  anything  which  would  seem  natural  to 
this  lady.  He  had  laid  his  hat  and  cane  on  the  para- 
pet of  the  terrace.  He  took  them  up,  offered  his  hand 
to  Madame  de  Mauves  with  a simple  good  night,  bowed 
silently  to  Madame  Clairin,  and  departed. 


IX. 


E went  home  and  without  lighting  his  candle 


J — L flung  himself  on  his  bed.  But  he  got  no  sleep 
till  morning ; he  lay  hour  after  hour  tossing,  thinking, 
wondering;  his  mind  had  never  been  so  active.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  Euphemia  had  laid  on  him  in  those 
last  moments  an  inspiring  commission,  and  that  she 
had  expressed  herself  almost  as  largely  as  if  she  had  lis- 
tened assentingly  to  an  assurance  of  his  love.  It  was 
neither  easy  nor  delightful  thoroughly  to  understand 
her ; but  little  by  little  her  perfect  meaning  sank  into 
his  mind  and  soothed  it  with  a sense  of  opportunity, 
which  somehow  stifled  his  sense  of  loss.  For,  to  begin 
with,  she  meant  that  she  could  love  him  in  no  degree 
nor  contingency,  in  no  imaginable  future.  This  was 
absolute ; he  felt  that  he  could  alter  it  no  more  than 
he  could  transpose  the  constellations  he  lay  gazing  at 
through  his  open  window.  He  wondered  what  it  was,  in 
the  background  of  her  life,  that  she  grasped  so  closely : 
a sense  of  duty,  unquenchable  to  the  end  ? a love  that 
no  offence  could  trample  out  ? “ Good  heavens ! ” he 

thought,  “ is  the  world  so  rich  in  the  purest  pearls  of 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


481 


passion,  that  such  tenderness  as  that  can  be  wasted 
forever,  — poured  away  without  a sigh  into  bottomless 
darkness  ? ” Had  she,  in  spite  of  the  detestable  pres- 
ent, some  precious  memory  which  contained  the  germ 
of  a shrinking  hope  ? Was  she  prepared  to  submit  to 
everything  and  yet  to  believe  ? Was  it  strength,  was 
it  weakness,  was  it  a vulgar  fear,  was  it  conviction, 
conscience,  constancy  ? 

Longmore  sank  back  with  a sigh  and  an  oppres- 
sive feeling  that  it  was  vain  to  guess  at  such  a 
woman's  motives.  He  only  felt  that  those  of  Madame 
de  Mauves  were  buried  deep  in  her  soul,  and  that 
they  must  be  of  some  fine  temper,  not  of  a base  one. 

He  had  a dim,  overwhelming  sense  of  a sort  of  in- 
vulnerable constancy  being  the  supreme  law  of  her 
character,  — a constancy  which  still  found  a foothold 
among  crumbling  ruins.  “ She  has  loved  once,”  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  rose  and  wandered  to  his  win- 
dow ; “ that ’s  forever.  Yes,  yes,  — if  she  loved  again  ^ 
she  would  be  common”  He  stood  for  a long  time 
looking  out  into  the  starlit  silence  of  the  town  and 
the  forest,  and  thinking  of  what  life  would  have 
been  if  his  constancy  had  met  hers  unpledged.  But 
life  was  this,  now,  and  he  must  live.  It  was  living 
keenly  to  stand  there  with  a petition  from  such  a 
woman  to  revolve.  He  was  not  to  disappoint  her, 
he  was  to  justify  a conception  which  it  had  beguiled 

21  EE 


482 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


her  weariness  to  shape.  Longmore’s  imagination 
swelled;  he  threw  back  his  head  and  seemed  to  be 
looking  for  Madame  de  Mauves’s  conception  among 
the  blinking,  mocking  stars.  But  it  came  to  him 
rather  on  the  mild  night-wind,  as  it  wandered  in 
over  the  house-tops  which  covered  the  rest  of  so  many 
heavy  human  hearts.  What  she  asked  he  felt  that 
she  was  asking,  not  for  her  own  sake  (she  feared  noth- 
ing, she  needed  nothing),  but  for  that  of  his  own 
happiness  and  his  own  character.  He  must  assent 
to  destiny.  Why  else  was  he  young  and  strong,  intel- 
ligent and  resolute  ? He  must  not  give  it  to  her  to 
reproach  him  with  thinking  that  she  had  a moment’s 
attention  for  his  love,  — to  plead,  to  argue,  to  break 
off  in  bitterness;  he  must  see  everything  from  above, 
her  indifference  and  his  own  ardor;  he  must  prove 
his  strength,  he  must  do  the  handsome  thing;  he 
must  decide  that  the  handsome  thing  was  to  submit 
to  the  inevitable,  to  be  supremely  delicate,  to  spare 
her  all  pain,  to  stifle  his  passion,  to  ask  no  compen- 
sation, to  depart  without  delay  and  try  to  believe 
that  wisdom  is  its  own  reward.  All  this,  neither 
more  nor  less,  it  was  a matter  of  friendship  with 
Madame  de  Mauves  to  expect  of  him.  And  what 
should  he  gain  by  it  ? He  should  have  pleased  her ! 
....  He  flung  himself  on  his  bed  again,  fell  asleep 
at  last,  and  slept  till  morning. 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


483 


Before  noon  the  next  day  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  leave  Saint-Germain  at  once.  It 
seemed  easier  to  leave  without  seeing  her,  and  yet 
if  he  might  ask  a grain  of  “compensation,”  it  would 

he  five  minutes  face  to  face  with  her.  He  passed  a 

• 

restless  day.  Wherever  he  went  he  seemed  to  see 
her  standing  before  him  in  the  dusky  halo  of  evening, 
and  looking  at  him  with  an  air  of  still  negation  more 
intoxicating  than  the  most  passionate  self-surrender. 
He  must  certainly  go,  and  yet  it  was  hideously  hard. 
He  compromised  and  went  to  Paris  to  spend  the  rest 
of  the  day.  He  strolled  along  the  boulevards  and 
looked  at  the  shops,  sat  awhile  in  the  Tuileries  gar- 
dens and  looked  at  the  shabby  unfortunates  for  whom 
this  only  was  nature  and  summer;  but  simply  felt, 
as  a result  of  it  all,  that  it  was  a very  dusty,  dreary, 
lonely  world  into  which  Madame  de  Mauves  was 
turning  him  away. 

In  a sombre  mood  he  made  his  way  back  to  the 
boulevards  and  sat  down  at  a table  on  the  great 
plain  of  hot  asphalt,  before  a cafe.  Night  came  on, 
the  lamps  were  lighted,  the  tables  near  him  found 
occupants,  and  Paris  began  to  wear  that  peculiar  even- 
ing look  of  hers  which  seems  to  say,  in  the  flare  of 
windows  and  theatre  doors,  and  the  muffled  rumble 
of  swift-rolling  carriages,  that  this  is  no  world  for  you 
unless  you  have  your  pockets  lined  and  your  scru- 


484 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


pies  drugged.  Longmore,  however,  had  neither  scru- 
ples nor  desires ; he  looked  at  the  swarming  city  for 
the  first  time  with  an  easy  sense  of  repaying  its  in- 
difference. Before  long  a carriage  drove  up  to  the 
pavement  directly  in  front  of  him,  and  remained  stand- 
ing for  several  minutes  without  its  occupant  getting 
out.  It  was  one  of  those  neat,  plain  coupes,  drawn 
by  a single  powerful  horse,  in  which  one  is  apt  to 
imagine  a pale,  handsome  woman,  buried  among  silk 
cushions,  and  yawning  as  she  sees  the  gas-lamps  glit- 
tering in  the  gutters.  At  last  the  door  opened  and 
out  stepped  M.  de  Mauves.  He  stopped  and  leaned 
on  the  window  for  some  time,  talking  in  an  excited 
manner  to  a person  within.  At  last  he  gave  a nod 
and  the  carriage  rolled  away.  He  stood  swinging  his 
cane  and  looking  up  and  down  the  boulevard,  with 
the  air  of  a man  fumbling,  as  one  may  say,  with  the 
loose  change  of  time.  He  turned  toward  the  cafe  and 
was  apparently,  for  want  of  anything  better  worth  his 
attention,  about  to  seat  himself  at  one  of  the  tables, 
when  he  perceived  Longmore.  He  wavered  an  in- 
stant, and  then,  without  a change  in  his  nonchalant 
gait,  strolled  toward  him  with  a bow  and  a vague 
smile. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  their  en- 
counter in  the  forest  after  Longmore’s  false  start  for 
Brussels.  Madame  Clairin’s  revelations,  as  we  may 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


485 


call  them,  had  not  made  the  Baron  especially  present 
to  his  mind;  he  had  another  office  for  his  emotions 
than  disgust.  But  as  M.  de  Mauves  came  toward 
him  he  felt  deep  in  his  heart  that  he  abhorred  him. 
He  noticed,  however,  for  the  first  time,  a shadow  upon 
the  Baron’s  cool  placidity,  and  his  delight  at  finding 
that  somewhere  at  last  the  shoe  pinched  him , mingled 
with  his  impulse  to  be  as  exasperatingly  impenetrable 
as  possible,  enabled  him  to  return  the  other’s  greeting 
with  all  his  own  self-possession. 

M.  de  Mauves  sat  down,  and  the  two  men  looked 
at  each  other  across  the  table,  exchanging  formal  greet- 
ings which  did  little  to  make  their  mutual  scrutiny 
seem  gracious.  Longmore  had  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  the  Baron  knew  of  his  sister’s  revelations.  He 
was  sure  that  M.  de  Mauves  cared  very  little  about 
his  opinions,  and  yet  he  had  a sense  that  there  was 
that  in  his  eyes  which  would  have  made  the  Baron 
change  color  if  keener  suspicion  had  helped  him  to 
read  it.  M.  de  Mauves  did  not  change  color,  but  he 
looked  at  Longmore  with  a half-defiant  intentness, 
which  betrayed  at  once  an  irritating  memory  of  the 
episode  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  such  vigilant 
curiosity  as  was  natural  to  a gentleman  who  had  in- 
trusted his  “honor”  to  another  gentleman’s  magna- 
nimity, — or  to  his  artlessness.  It  would  appear  that 
Longmore  seemed  to  the  Baron  to  possess  these  vir- 


486 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


tues  in  rather  scantier  measure  than  a few  days  before ; 
for  the  cloud  deepened  on  his  face,  and  he  turned  away 
and  frowned  as  he  lighted  a cigar. 

The  person  in  the  coupe,  Longmore  thought,  whether 
or  no  the  same  person  as  the  heroine  of  the  episode 
of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  was  not  a source  of  unalloyed 
delight.  Longmore  had  dark  blue  eyes,  of  admirable 
lucidity,  — truth-telling  eyes  which  had  in  his  child- 
hood always  made  his  harshest  taskmasters  smile  at 
his  nursery  fibs.  An  observer  watching  the  two  men, 
and  knowing  something  of  their  relations,  would  cer- 
tainly have  said  that  what  he  saw  in  those  eyes  must 
not  a little  have  puzzled  and  tormented  M.  de  Mauves. 
They  judged  him,  they  mocked  him,  they  eluded  him, 
they  threatened  him,  they  triumphed  over  him,  they 
treated  him  as  no  pair  of  eyes  had  ever  treated  him. 
The  Baron’s  scheme  had  been  to  make  no  one  happy 
but  himself,  and  here  was  Longmore  already,  if  looks 
were  to  be  trusted,  primed  for  an  enterprise  more  in- 
spiring than  the  finest  of  his  own  achievements.  Was 
this  candid  young  barbarian  but  a faux  bonhomme 
after  all  ? He  had  puzzled  the  Baron  before,  and  this 
was  once  too  .often. 

M.  de  Mauves  hated  to  seem  preoccupied,  and  he 
took  up  the  evening  paper  to  help  himself  to  look 
indifferent.  As  he  glanced  over  it  he  uttered  some 
cold  commonplace  on  the  political  situation,  which 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


487 


gave  Longmore  an  easy  opportunity  of  replying  by 
an  ironical  sally  which  made  him  seem  for  the  moment 
aggressively  at  his  ease.  And  yet  our  hero  was  far 
from  being  master  of  the  situation.  The  Baron’s  ill- 
humor  did  him  good,  so  far  as  it  pointed  to  a want 
of  harmony  with  the  lady  in  the  coupe;  but  it  dis- 
turbed him  sorely  as  he  began  to  suspect  that  it  pos- 
sibly meant  jealousy  of  himself.  It  passed  through 
his  mind  that  jealousy  is  a passion  with  a double  face, 
and  that  in  some  of  its  moods  it  bears  a plausible 
likeness  to  affection.  It  recurred  to  him  painfully 
that  the  Baron  might  grow  ashamed  of  his  political 
compact  with  his  wife,  and  he  felt  that  it  would 
be  far  more  tolerable  in  the  future  to  think  of  his 
continued  turpitude  than  of  his  repentance.  The  two 
men  sat  for  half  an  hour  exchanging  stinted  Small- 
talk, the  Baron  feeling  a nervous  need  of  playing  the 
spy,  and  Longmore  indulging  a ferocious  relish  of  his 
discomfort.  These  rigid  courtesies  were  interrupted 
however  by  the  arrival  of  a friend  of  M.  de  Mauves,  — 
a tall,  pale,  consumptive-looking  dandy,  who  filled  the 
air  with  the  odor  of  heliotrope.  He  looked  up  and 
down  the  boulevard  wearily,  examined  the  Baron’s 
toilet  from  head  to  foot,  then  surveyed  his  own  in  the 
same  fashion,  and  at  last  announced  languidly  that  the 
Duchess  was  in  town!  M.  de  Mauves  must  come 
with  him  to  call;  she  had  abused  him  dreadfully  a 


488 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


couple  of  evenings  before,  — a sure  sign  she  wanted  to 
see  him. 

“I  depend  upon  you,”  said  M.  de  Mauves’s  friend 
with  an  infantine  drawl,  “to  put  her  en  train!' 

M.  de  Mauves  resisted,  and  protested  that  he  was 
d’une  humeur  massacrante ; but  at  last  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  drawn  to  his  feet,  and  stood  looking 
awkwardly — awkwardly  for  M.  de  Mauves — at  Long- 
more.  “ You  ’ll  excuse  me,”  he  said  dryly ; “ you,  too, 
probably,  have  occupation  for  the  evening  ? ” 

“ None  but  to  catch  my  train,”  Longmore  answered, 
looking  at  his  watch. 

“Ah,  you  go  back  to  Saint-Germain?” 

“ In  half  an  hour.” 

M.  de  Mauves  seemed  on  the  point  of  disengaging 
himself  from  his  companion’s  arm,  which  was  locked 
in  his  own ; but  on  the  latter  uttering  some  persuasive 
murmur,  he  lifted  his  hat  stiffly  and  turned  away. 

Longmore  packed  his  trunk  the  next  day  with  dog- 
ged heroism  and  wandered  off  to  the  terrace,  to  try  and 
beguile  the  restlessness  with  which  he  waited  for  even- 
ing ; for  he  wished  to  see  Madame  de  Mauves  for  the 
last  time  at  the  hour  of  long  shadows  and  pale  pink- 
reflected  lights,  as  he  had  almost  always  seen  her. 
Destiny,  however,  took  no  account  of  this  humble  plea 
for  poetic  justice ; it  was  his  fortune  to  meet  her  on 
the  terrace  sitting  under  a tree,  alone.  It  was  an  hour 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


489 


when  the  place  was  almost  empty ; the  day  was  warm, 
but  as  he  took  his  place  beside  her  a light  breeze 
stirred  the  leafy  edges  on  the  broad  circle  of  shadow 
in  which  she  sat.  She  looked  at  him  with  candid 
anxiety,  and  he  immediately  told  her  that  he  should 
leave  Saint-Germain  that  evening,  — that  he  must  bid 
her  farewell.  Her  eye  expanded  and  brightened  for  a 
moment  as  he  spoke ; but  she  said  nothing  and  turned 
her  glance  away  toward  distant  Paris,  as  it  lay  twink- 
ling and  flashing  through  its  hot  exhalations.  “ I have 
a request  to  make  of  you,”  he  added.  “ That  you  think 
of  me  as  a man  who  has  felt  much  and  claimed  little.” 

She  drew  a long  breath,  which  almost  suggested 
pain.  “ I can’t  think  of  you  as  unhappy.  It ’s  im- 
possible. You  have  a life  to  lead,  you  have  duties, 
talents,  and  interests.  I shall  hear  of  your  career. 
And  then,”  she  continued  after  a pause  and  with  the 
deepest  seriousness,  “one  can’t  be  unhappy  through 
having  a better  opinion  of  a friend,  instead  of  a 
worse.” 

For  a moment  he  failed  to  understand  her.  “ Do 
you  mean  that  there  can  be  varying  degrees  in  my 
opinion  of  you  ? ” 

She  rose  and  pushed  away  her  chair.  “I  mean,” 
she  said  quickly,  “ that  it ’s  better  to  have  done  noth- 
ing in  bitterness,  — nothing  in  passion.”  And  she 
began  to  walk. 


21* 


490 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


Longmore  followed  her,  without  answering.  But  he 
took  off  his  hat  and  with  his  pocket-handkerchief 
wiped  his  forehead.  “ Where  shall  you  go  ? what 
shall  you  do  ? ” he  asked  at  last,  abruptly. 

“ Do  ? I shall  do  as  I *ve  always  done,  — except 
perhaps  that  I shall  go  for  a while  to  Auvergne.” 

“ I shall  go  to  America.  I have  done  with  Europe 
for  the  present.” 

She  glanced  at  him  as  he  walked  beside  her  after 
he  had  spoken  these  words,  and  then  bent  her  eyes 
for  a long  time  on  the  ground.  At  last,  seeing  that 
she  was  going  far,  she  stopped  and  put  out  her  hand. 
“ Good  by,”  she  said ; “ may  you  have  all  the  happi- 
ness you  deserve ! ” 

He  took  her  hand  and  looked  at  her,  but  something 
was  passing  in  him  that  made  it  impossible  to  return 
her  hand’s  light  pressure.  Something  of  infinite  value 
was  floating  past  him,  and  he  had  taken  an  oath  not 
to  raise  a finger  to  stop  it.  It  was  borne  by  the  strong 
current  of  the  world’s  great  life  and  not  of  his  own 
small  one.  Madame  de  Mauves  disengaged  her  hand, 
gathered  her  shawl,  and  smiled  at  him  almost  as  you 
would  do  at  a child  you  should  wish  to  encourage. 
Several  moments  later  he  was  still  standing  watching 
her  receding  figure.  When  it  had  disappeared,  he 
shook  himself,  walked  rapidly  back  to  his  hotel,  and 
without  waiting  for  the  evening  train  paid  his  bill  and 
departed. 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


491 


Later  in  the  day  M.  de  Mauves  came  into  his  wife’s 
drawing-room,  where  she  sat  waiting  to  be  summoned 
to  dinner.  He  was  dressed  with  a scrupulous  fresh- 
ness which  seemed  to  indicate  an  intention  of  dining 
out.  He  walked  up  arid  down  for  some  moments  in 
silence,  then  rang  the  bell  for  a servant,  and  went  out 
into  the  hall  to  meet  him.  He  ordered  the  carriage 
to  take  him  to  the  station,  paused  a moment  with  his 
hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door,  dismissed  the  servant 
angrily  as  the  latter  lingered  observing  him,  re-entered 
the  drawing-room,  resumed  his  restless  walk,  and  at 
last  stepped  abruptly  before  his  wife,  who  had  taken 
up  a book.  “ May  I ask  the  favor,”  he  said  with  evi- 
dent effort,  in  spite  of  a forced  smile  of  easy  courtesy, 
“ of  having  a question  answered  ? ” 

“ It ’s  a favor  I never  refused,”  Madame  de  Mauves 
replied. 

“Very  true.  Do  you  expect  this  evening  a visit 
from  Mr.  Longmore  ? ” 

“ Mr.  Longmore,”  said  his  wife,  “ has  left  Saint- 
Germain.”  M.  de  Mauves  started  and  his  smile 
expired.  “ Mr.  Longmore,”  his  wife  continued,  “ has 
gone  to  America.” 

M.  de  Mauves  stared  a moment,  flushed  deeply,  and 
turned  away.  Then  recovering  himself,  — “ Had  any- 
thing happened  ? ” he  asked.  “ Had  he  a sudden  call  ? ” 

But  his  question  received  no  answer.  At  the 


492 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


same  moment  the  servant  threw  open  the  door  and 
announced  dinner;  Madame  Clairin  rustled  in,  rub- 
bing her  white  hands,  Madame  de  Mauves  passed 
silently  into  the  dining-room,  and  he  stood  frowning 
and  wondering.  Before  long  he  went  out  upon  the 
terrace  and  continued  his  uneasy  walk.  At  the  end 
of  a quarter  of  an  hour  the  servant  came  to  inform 
him  that  the  carriage  was  at  the  door.  “ Send  it 
away,”  he  said  curtly.  “ I shall  not  use  it.”  When 
the  ladies  had  half  finished  dinner  he  went  in  and 
joined  them,  with  a formal  apology  to  his  wife  for 
his  tardiness. 

The  dishes  were  brought  back,  but  he  hardly  tasted 
them;  on  the  other  hand,  he  drank  a great  deal  of 
wine.  There  was  little  talk;  what  there  was,  was 
supplied  by  Madame  Clairin.  Twice  she  saw  her 
brother’s  eyes  fixed  on  her  own,  over  his  wineglass, 
with  a piercing,  questioning  glance.  She  replied  by 
an  elevation  of  the  eyebrows,  which  did  the  office  of  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  M.  de  Mauves  was  left  alone 
to  finish  his  wine  ; he  sat  over  it  for  more  than  an 
hour,  and  let  the  darkness  gather  about  him.  At  last 
the  servant  came  in  with  a letter  and  lighted  a can- 
dle. The  letter  was  a telegram,  which  M.  de  Mauves, 
when  he  had  read  it,  burnt  at  the  candle.  After  five 
minutes’  meditation,  he  wrote  a message  on  the  back 
of  a visiting-card  and  gave  it  to  the  servant  to  carry 


MADAME  DE  MAUYES. 


493 


to  the  office.  The  man  knew  quite  as  much  as  his 
master  suspected  about  the  lady  to  whom  the  tele- 
gram was  addressed ; but  its  contents  puzzled  him ; 
they  consisted  of  the  single  word,  “ Impossible  ” As 
the  evening  passed  without  her  brother  reappearing 
in  the  drawing-room,  Madame  Clairin  came  to  him 
where  he  sat,  by  his  solitary  candle.  He  took  no 
notice  of  her  presence  for  some  time ; but  he  was  the 
one  person  to  whom  she  allowed  this  license.  At  last, 
speaking  in  a peremptory  tone,  “The  American  has 
gone  home  at  an  hour’s  notice,”  he  said.  “ What  does 
it  mean?” 

Madame  Clairin  now  gave  free  play  to  the  shrug  she 
had  been  obliged  to  suppress  at  the  table.  “ It  means 
that  I have  a sister-in-law  whom  I have  n’t  the  honor 
to  understand.” 

He  said  nothing  more,  and  silently  allowed  her  to 
depart,  as  if  it  had  been  her  duty  to  provide  him  with 
an  explanation  and  he  was  disgusted  with  her  levity. 
When  she  had  gone,  he  went  into  the  garden  and 
walked  up  and  down,  smoking.  He  saw  his  wife  sit- 
ting alone  on  the  terrace,  but  remained  below  strolling 
along  the  narrow  paths.  He  remained  a long  time. 
It  became  late  and  Madame  de  Mauves  disappeared. 
Toward  midnight  he  dropped  upon  a bench,  tired, 
with  a kind  of  angry  sigh.  It  was  sinking  into  his 
mind  that  he,  too,  did  not  understand  Madame 
Clairin’s  sister-in-law. 


494 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


Longmore  was  obliged  to  wait  a week  in  London  for 
a ship.  It  was  very  hot,  and  he  went  out  for  a day 
to  Kichmond.  In  the  garden  of  the  hotel  at  which  he 
dined  he  met  his  friend  Mrs.  Draper,  who  was  stay- 
ing there.  She  made  eager  inquiry  about  Madame  de 
Mauves,  but  Longmore  at  first,  as  they  sat  looking 
out  at  the  famous  view  of  the  Thames,  parried  her 
questions  and  confined  himself  to  small-talk.  At  last 
she  said  she  was  afraid  he  had  something  to  conceal ; 
whereupon,  after  a pause,  he  asked  her  if  she  remem- 
bered recommending  him,  in  the  letter  she  sent  to 
him  at  Saint-Germain,  to  draw  the  sadness  from  her 
friend’s  smile.  “ The  last  I saw  of  her  was  her  smile,” 
said  he,  - — “ when  I bade  her  good  by.” 

“ I remember  urging  you  to  f console  ’ her,”  Mrs. 
Draper  answered,  “ and  I wondered  afterwards  whether 
- — a model  of  discretion  as  you  are  — I had  n’t  given 
you  rather  foolish  advice.” 

“ She  has  her  consolation  in  herself,”  he  said ; “ she 
needs  none  that  any  one  else  can  offer  her.  That ’s  for 
troubles  for  which  — be  it  more,  be  it  less  — our  own 
folly  has  to  answer.  Madame  de  Mauves  has  not  a 
grain  of  folly  left.” 

“ Ah,  don’t  say  that ! ” murmured  Mrs.  Draper.  “ Just 
a little  folly  is  very  graceful.” 

Longmore  rose  to  go,  with  a quick  nervous  move- 
ment. “ Don’t  talk  of  grace,”  he  said,  “ till  you  have 
measured  her  reason.” 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


495 


For  two  years  after  his  return  to  America  he  heard 
nothing  of  Madame  de  Mauves.  That  he  thought  of 
her  intently,  constantly,  I need  hardly  say : most  peo- 
ple wondered  why  such  a clever  young  man  should  not 
“ devote ” himself  to  something;  hut  to  himself  he 
seemed  absorbingly  occupied.  He  never  wrote  to  her ; 
he  believed  that  she  preferred  it.  At  last  he  heard 
that  Mrs.  Draper  had  come  home,  and  he  immediately 
called  on  her.  “ Of  course,”  she  said  after  the  first 
greetings,  “you  are  dying  for  news  of  Madame  de 
Mauves.  Prepare  yourself  for  something  strange.  I 
heard  from  her  two  or  three  times  during  the  year 
after  your  return.  She  left  Saint-Germain  and  went 
to  live  in  the  country,  on  some  old  property  of  her 
husband’s.  She  wrote  me  very  kind  little  notes,  but 
I felt  somehow  that  — in  spite  of  what  you  said  about 
‘ consolation 9 — they  were  the  notes  of  a very  sad  wo- 
man. The  only  advice  I could  have  given  her  was  to 
leave  her  wretch  of  a husband  and  come  back  to  her  own 
land  and  her  own  people.  But  this  I did  n’t  feel  free 
to  do,  and  yet  it  made  me  so  miserable  not  to  be  able 
to  help  her  that  I preferred  to  let  our  correspondence 
die  a natural  death.  I had  no  news  of  her  for  a year. 
Last  summer,  however,  I met  at  Yichy  a clever  young 
Frenchman  whom  I accidentally  learned  to  be  a friend 
of  Euphemia’s  lovely  sister-in-law,  Madame  Clairin.  I 
lost  no  time  in  asking  him  what  he  knew  about 


496 


MADAME  DE  MAUVES. 


Madame  de  Mauves,  — a countrywoman  of  mine  and 
an  old  friend.  ‘ I congratulate  you  on  possessing  her 
friendship/  he  answered.  ‘ That ’s  the  charming  little 
woman  who  killed  her  husband/  You  may  imagine 
that  I promptly  asked  for  an  explanation,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  relate  to  me  what  he  called  the  whole  story. 
M.  de  Mauves  had  fait  quelques  folies , which  his  wife 
had  taken  absurdly  to  heart.  He  had  repented  and 
asked  her  forgiveness,  which  she  had  inexorably  re- 
fused. She  was  very  pretty,  and  severity,  apparently, 
suited  her  style ; for  whether  or  no  her  husband  had 
been  in  love  with  her  before,  he  fell  madly  in  love  with 
her  now.  He  was  the  proudest  man  in  France,  but 
he  had  begged  her  on  his  knees  to  be  readmitted  to 
favor.  All  in  vain  ! She  was  stone,  she  was  ice,  she 
was  outraged  virtue.  People  noticed  a great  change  in 
him : he  gave  up  society,  ceased  to  care  for  anything, 
looked  shockingly.  One  fine  day  they  learned  that  he 
had  blown  out  his  brains.  My  friend  had  the  story 
of  course  from  Madame  Clairin/, 

Longmore  was  strongly  moved,  and  his  first  impulse 
after  he  had  recovered  his  composure  was  to  return 
immediately  to  Europe.  But  several  years  have  passed, 
and  he  still  lingers  at  home.  The  truth  is,  that  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  ardent  tenderness  of  his  memory  of 
..Madame  de  Mauves,  he  has  become  conscious  of  a 
singular  feeling,  — a feeling  for  which  awe  would  be 
hardly  too  strong  a name. 


) 


